


Not Just Horsemen Come in Fours

by Sylvan



Series: Not Just Horsemen Come in Fours [1]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-03
Updated: 1998-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvan/pseuds/Sylvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quartet of Immortals comes to Seacouver to challenge Duncan MacLeod, and Methos’ chance encounter with one of them blossoms into seduction. Duncan MacLeod is not entirely certain what to make of the individual challenges he's facing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Confusing Meetings to Set the Stage

**Part 1: Confusing Meetings to Set the Stage**

The buzz hit him, not with the elusive feel of an Immortal sneaking up on him or tentatively approaching to see who he was, but with a slam of someone hurtling close. Methos bolted but was caught by his right arm and spun into the alley. A hand like iron locked his lips shut bruisingly as the other Immortal slammed him against the brick wall. Stars sprang around his sight. He was pinned, the Immortal’s other hand locking on his sword arm, using a heavier body to hold him flat. His vision cleared and he found himself cross-eyed, trying to identify the Immortal whose nose touched his. 

The other drew slightly back, allowing a clear view of his features. Clean cut, with an aquiline nose. Fascinatingly high cheekbones and firm lips pulled back slightly over rather ordinary teeth. The eyes were a brilliant gray, almost silver. The hair was like Dawson’s, salt and pepper leaning more toward salt. 

Before a stunned Methos could make up his mind to react with indignation the other released his lips, trailing fingertips along them. The old Immortal was beset by a very different fear at open appraisal in the gray eyes. 

“Challenge,” the other stated softly. 

Methos nodded his head jerkily. 

“Not for your honor,” the other added, bringing his left cheek near enough that Methos could feel the tiny hairs on their skin brush each other. “Simply, challenge. After all,” he spoke so softly now that Methos had to strain to hear, “there can be only one.” 

“I’m Adam Pierson. I can’t fight in this position,” he said unsteadily. He could feel the hard strength of the other man, the heat of his body where he was pinned. His heart hammered as the other slowly pulled away, deliberately sliding his cheek along Methos’. Goosebumps rose along the length of his body. 

The other slid gracefully back a meter, lips twitching with suppressed amusement. He gave Methos space to steady himself.. Their eyes met again and Methos was further shaken. He was unaccountably reminded of Silas. Not as he last saw him - in a berserk fury over Methos’ betrayal - nor in the resentful eyes that haunted his sleepless nights. There was humor in the silver-gray eyes, an enthusiasm for life and joy untempered by time. He seemed just shy of two meters tall, with broad shoulders. The sword he now held was a simple Battlesword, with no obvious markings to betray an age older than when those swords were initially made. 

“In this language, I am Grey,” the other identified himself. He tilted his head, body language inviting his opponent to see the humor in his name. Almost without willing Methos found himself smiling. 

Then Grey’s laughing eyes went dark with serious challenge, and Methos answered it with his sword. The first blows were less than determined as the two sought to gauge each other’s ability. The pace picked up rapidly until the ring of their swords seemed unbroken. In a fight you do not divide your attention, especially when your life is at stake. Methos was trying to recall anything about Grey that could help him, as the Immortal’s name was familiar from the Watcher’s chronicles. He learned the names of all the more deadly ones. An ache was running from his arms down into his chest and his breathing was coming sharp with a faint taste of iron. Suddenly his right leg cramped up, and Methos was falling. 

He barely had time to think that at least it was not a monster Immortal who would take his Quickening. Then he hit the bar of Grey’s arm in front of his chest. He dared not move, feeling the sword against the back of his neck. 

Grey waited until their harsh breathing had eased somewhat. Allowing Methos to lean against his arm he brought his head close enough again to tangle hairs. His lips brushed Methos’ ear as he spoke. “You fight well, but without conviction. That will kill you unless you are very lucky.” His soft voice seemed to surround Methos, who held on to the peculiar comfort it offered. 

“I don’t... I do not want to die,” he replied. His chest hurt, but the pain was already fading even as the adrenaline rush from the fight was leaving him. 

“Not today. You cannot defend yourself adequately. I don’t kill the helpless.” Grey squeezed Methos’ shoulders and flowed to his feet in one motion. He paused to smile warmly at Methos, then vanished from the alley, slipping out between one sunbeam and the next. 

* * *

Early evening customers were just beginning to trickle in to the bar. Up on the stage the band was running through some tune-up drills, the subliminal thrum of the bass guitar setting up a resonance in the listener’s bones. 

Joseph Dawson, full-time Watcher and Proprietor, had already relaxed into his evening routine. Thoughts of a certain person were far from his mind. He deliberately kept it so. He only pondered upon the missing man when he was off work, late in the dark of night. Thus it was a full breath before he recognized the troubled visage in front of him, Pierson! 

For a moment questions clogged his throat. He pushed them forcibly aside in light of Pierson’s pasty complexion, tightly compressed lips and the way he pressed his palms flat atop the counter. Dawson pulled some sleight of hand and made a bottle of the old Immortal’s favorite beer appear on the counter. An involuntary smile escaped Pierson’s lips, his hands relaxed slightly as Dawson poured the drink. The Immortal downed his beer in one gulp and held out his glass plaintively for more. 

Joe Dawson already had the report from Duncan MacLeod. However traumatic it was, the Four Horsemen incident was weeks ago. Something must have happened recently. Dawson took the glass and set his hand on Pierson’s wrist. He gazed firmly for a moment into the haunted brown eyes which acknowledged his meaning with a brief flicker. The Immortal nursed his second drink slowly. 

The Watcher retired to serving other customers in some relief, reasonably sure that at closing time Pierson would still be coherent. 

* * *

“Can I help?” Pierson asked. Dawson looked up from wiping down the tables. With a wordless smile, he tossed the cleaning rag over and sat down. A twinge of his normal humor came back to the Immortal, “I said ‘help’, not do it FOR you.” He began wiping at tabletops in a manner more concentrated than the task called for. 

The Watcher studied the other man for a few minutes, taking in the way in which Pierson rested his weight forward. A man who wanted to run, but was not certain where to go. Dawson pulled himself to his feet and moved around the bar, checking to see that no customers remained in the restrooms. He did not disturb the Immortal until after he secured the doors. Then he came back to the table he was at earlier, caught the other man’s attention with a wave. “Sit down, Methos. Tell me what’s happened now.” 

Methos stopped his wiping and turned a disquieted gaze upon the mortal. “You know something I really like about this bar, Joe?” The Watcher tilted his head quizzically. “Both the entrance and exit are positioned so that if an Immortal comes in, those already here will detect him.” 

“Is someone hunting you?” Worried, the Watcher leaned forward to better see the feelings in those troubled eyes. 

“Oh, no. Not me. No.” He shivered abruptly, then moved forward to slump into the chair across from Dawson. He spent another moment studying the whorls in the wooden table-top. Finally he met the Watcher’s eyes again. 

“Today I met Grey.” 

“Grey?” The word was so innocuous, it took Joe Dawson a minute to connect it with Immortals and Watcher’s records. “Well,” he finally began then stopped. 

“Yes, and I managed to convince him I was what I appeared to be.” Methos’ mild, ‘I’m Just a Guy’ routine was very deceptive. At times he practiced it so deeply that even those who knew the secret harbored some doubts. MacLeod would have fallen for it if Methos had wanted to fool him. 

“This had to happen someday, I suppose,” Dawson said at last. “The Four come to challenge Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” As earlier, he leaned forward and laid his fingers with gentle, yet authoritative pressure upon Methos’ wrist. “Tell me what happened.” 

The Immortal gazed blankly into the darkness behind Dawson. He took a slow, deep breath and began. “I was walking here. I had to see you, Joe, before I see MacLeod. We... did not part on the best of terms. Though there are worse terms to part on. I was just a few minutes away from here when I felt another Immortal...” 

* * *

As he related the story, Methos relaxed. The troubled look faded from his eyes to be replaced by the introspective humor Dawson was used to. His body slipped into its usual pseudo-couch potato attitude. 

“He called you ‘helpless’? It didn’t sound like you did THAT badly.” 

“Ha ha,” growled Methos. “No, it was in his Research Summary.” 

Dawson whapped him with a napkin. “Give, boy! Give!” 

The grinning Immortal ducked away. He resettled himself more comfortably, torso draped along the table top, body only halfway in his chair. “When a Watcher dies or retires from a long-term assignment, we researchers go through the recent chronicles of their Immortals. It helps the new Watcher.” Dawson nodded, remembering the summary atop MacLeod’s chronicles when he was first assigned to the Scotsman. It told him where to look for information about swords, particularly good friends or deadly enemies. Of course he went through the chronicles, but the summary took care of immediate questions. “Grey was described as a man who loves the fight but hardly ever kills. He only takes heads when his opponent forces him to.” 

“That’s an awfully thin thread on which to base your strategy.” 

“I know. When the duel ended I thought it ended for me. I’m not as resilient as MacLeod.” 

Now that he had released the fear and general sense of bewilderment the fight had left him with, Methos had gone into relaxed mode. Dawson caught the familiar half-sleepy expression and sighed. “So you’re alright, now?” Methos looked puzzled by the question, then his face cleared. Well, thought Dawson, after five thousand years he must be used to putting things behind him. 

“I do want to know why he attacked me, though.” He gazed steadily at Dawson, no trace of sleepiness in his eyes but instead a shy hope. 

“Oh really?” Dawson looked left, but only met the darkness of the walls. He looked right but that scene was much the same. He finally looked at Methos from under lowered eyelashes. “You don’t suppose he just wanted a date?” he teased. 

“I don’t have room in my life for an Immortal lover,” Methos said too quickly. 

Joe Dawson choked back a laugh. A few snorts escaped but he finally could hold a straight face. “Tell you what, I’ll ask the Four’s Watcher to come here tomorrow evening and talk to us. But you have to do something for me.” 

Methos looked suspiciously at the mortal. “Ah. What?” 

“Tell me what happened in Bordeaux,” Dawson said gently. He felt a pang of guilt as Methos’ face went pale. 

The Immortal swallowed visibly three times before the color came back into his face. “Oh, yes. I can do that.” 

* * *

As it turned out, the Four’s Watcher could not come the next evening. But she could come the day after, around nine in the morning. Dawson and Methos both groaned but decided they would have to get up anyway. (“You know, this is really why I quit the bookstore and opened the bar - so I wouldn’t have to get up before noon!”) 

The two men sat drinking coffee and watching the door. At about ten to, it opened and an understated young woman stepped through. For a moment they saw her easily. Then, disconcertingly, they found they had to stare intently to see her. 

She was a perfect field operative. When she moved she fit utterly into her surroundings. When she stopped, she stopped so completely she faded into the woodwork. She would have to be good, to watch four alert Immortals. She moved again, crossing the floor to the two men who stared wide-eyed at her as if afraid to take their eyes off. A hazel-eyed woman in her mid-twenties with shoulder length, wavy brown hair. Her face was round and entirely normal looking. No one could look that normal, thought Methos. He vaguely remembered some television show recently, a sci-fi one about people like her. 

She became immobile again just a foot from them. The silence stretched and finally Dawson broke it, clearing his throat and leaning forward. He opened his mouth but Adam Pierson spoke first. 

“How do you DO that?!” 

At his question she smiled. With that smile she was somehow suddenly present, connected to them rather than the space around them. “You must be the researcher,” she said. 

Joe Dawson levered himself to his feet. “Melinda Krager, this is Adam Pierson, our top Methos-researcher.” 

She nodded and Pierson returned her nod. She turned her now-quiet expression to Dawson. She had to be curious, but her body-language and expression provided no hint as to her feelings. 

Dawson threw out all the stories they had come up with in the last thirty hours. He chose a variation of the truth. “I asked you in because Pierson witnessed Grey fighting another Immortal Thursday evening.” 

The sun burst from behind the clouds and made all things visible. In a flash she pulled a chair over, had her recorder out and was all ears for Adam Pierson. Dawson, temporarily forgotten, sat back down to see how the Immortal would field this ball suddenly thrown to him. 

Pierson shot the Watcher a dirty look. He rubbed his face and quickly changed mode to tell his tale as a third-person observer. “I was coming here, and there was this guy walking about a block in front of me. Suddenly this other guy grabs him and drags him into the alley. So I ran to help, but I wasn’t going to just barge in and get myself shot. I looked cautiously ‘round the corner....” Pierson pursed his lips, thinking about just how to describe the situation. “The big guy had the other guy pinned against the wall. Their position was... was....” He shook his head violently. “I wasn’t sure if I was looking at a seduction or a potential rape. Then the big guy stepped back, saying he was Grey. And I realized they both had to be Immortals.” 

“Which sword did he have?” 

“Oh, an ordinary looking Battlesword.” He paused to run over his story in his mind again before continuing. “Then they fought. I’ve never seen Immortals fight close up. They started fast, then... well they got faster. The sound - you couldn’t - I couldn’t tell at one point...” he stumbled over the description, shaking his head. “They were so fast... and then the other Immortal lost his footing. I was sure Grey would take his head, but he just caught him. Suddenly it wasn’t a fight, but again a potential seduction. I couldn’t hear what they said, but Grey let him go and left the alley.” 

“And the other Immortal?” 

“Oh, he went the other way.” 

“Was he very handsome?” 

Pierson blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Then he felt he should not have been, considering. He stumbled over his answer. “I wouldn’t know THAT!” 

Dawson was shaking with laughter. Krager was actually having trouble keeping a straight face. She finally said, “Even straight men make value-judgments about their competition, Mr.Pierson.” 

Playing the young researcher, he ducked his head in an agony of embarrassment. “Must have been. He was tall and thin, with short brown hair. I really wasn’t close enough to get a good view.” Dawson practically fell out of his chair. 

Krager turned her head to gaze quizzically at the older man. He straightened up, drew a few deep breaths and said, “I’ve been remiss! What’s your poison?” At her startled blink he clarified, “Coffee, tea, or something alcoholic?” 

She quirked a smile at him. “How’s about a Strawberry Daiquiri?” 

“You got it.” 

While Dawson mixed her daiquiri, Krager continued to question Adam Pierson. She drew details from him about Grey, the other Immortal, the way they fought. By the time they were finished, Pierson had a splitting headache from trying not to give himself away as one of the combatants. He had downed two shots of Scotch and was just getting pleasantly buzzed to counter the headache. Through that faint buzz came a very different buzz.... He carefully kept any reaction from his face, but stared at Joe Dawson trying to catch his eye. Even as he sought to warn the Watcher, he sought also to quench his faint wish that the Immortal would be Grey. He felt guilty. He really wanted to see MacLeod and would be glad to see him. But will MacLeod be glad to see me? he wondered. 

When the doors opened it was someone entirely different who came in. It was a measure of all three people’s experience that none of them reacted in a particularly unusual way. A boy was at the door. He was clearly of Asian ancestry, with jet black hair, brilliant dark eyes and a rounded square face. He stood straight, no hunching of his shoulders, seeming very mature. 

Dawson glanced over at him, apparently perturbed. “I’m sorry, kid. We’re closed. Besides, you’re underage so you’ll have to go.” 

The boy came farther in. He gazed steadily towards the other two people in the bar. Then he reached into his pocket and drew forth his wallet. Opening it he showed its contents to Dawson. The Watcher’s eyebrows shot up as he looked at the displayed I.D. “Well,” he finally said. “I’m afraid we’re still closed.” 

Adam Pierson and Melinda Krager were doing bewilderment really nicely. They blinked back and forth between the other two. “You’re telling me he’s legal?” exclaimed Pierson. 

Dawson closed up the wallet and gazed a question at the young-seeming Immortal, who shrugged indifferently. “It’s a medical condition. Regardless of how he looks, he’s an adult.” 

“Oh, I know!” Krager exclaimed. “It’s like Gary Coleman. So how old are you?” She leaned over to look closely at him. 

He drew back slightly, annoyed by her intent scrutiny. “I am twenty-five years old.” His voice was cultured, a British boarding-school accent. “I simply wanted a cola.” 

“Coke or Pepsi?” Dawson asked. 

The small man smiled appreciatively. “A coke if you please.” 

Krager leaned back and Pierson leaned forward until the two were almost touching each other. “You just want pop?” they chorused. 

He shot them an irritated glance. “I do not drink at this hour.” 

“Don’t annoy a paying customer,” Dawson told them. They both shot him hurt looks, sipping their drinks. 

Taking his coke the “young” man moved away from them, and sat on a barstool facing their direction. The men knew he was trying to decide which of the three of them was the other Immortal. 

Dawson turned back to the others, amused to realize he was the only person in the bar who knew what and who everyone there was. The newcomer’s I.D. said “Tran Nguyen”, making him Tran of the Four. Krager would confirm his assumption, he was sure. The question was, how much danger was Methos in of being exposed? Speaking of which, he took a good look at Adam Pierson. For all his cool attitude, the line of his jaw was sharper than usual. Krager, for her part, kept catching Dawson’s eyes with hers. Yes, this was THE Tran. First Grey, now Tran. The other two would probably show up when there was no one around to identify them. 

Tran’s attention suddenly transferred to the entrance, even as Pierson shifted in his seat, eyes clinging to Dawson’s. The Watcher began to steel himself for the very real danger of an Immortal fight within the confines of his bar. It was unlikely, given their penchant for privacy, but you could never be sure. 

One door swung open, and a tall form was silhouetted against the bright afternoon light, hair turned molten. He took a step farther in and his soft voice drifted their direction. “It’s time to go, or we’ll miss the service.” 

Tran Nguyen nodded and finished off his coke. He headed for his friend, who straightened up and gazed steadily at the occupied table. “Hello again, Adam Pierson.” 

Krager turned a quizzical gaze on the researcher, whose face was a study in conflicting emotions. He finally settled on embarrassment, lowering his eyes for a moment, then raising them again. Golden-brown met liquid silver. “Mr. Grey.” 

Grey’s lips twitched then slowly blossomed into a delighted smile. Nguyen, who had been staring in surprise at Pierson, assessed the situation. Clearly amused, he caught Grey’s arm and began to bustle him out. “As you said, we’ll miss the service.” The doors swung shut behind them. This time, Dawson went to lock them. 

Melinda Krager’s quizzical expression changed to a demanding one. “You didn’t say he saw you! Or that you spoke to him!” 

“Grey came out the alley on Adam’s side,” Dawson responded, for the other man was still staring somewhat dazedly at the door. “He caught Adam and searched him.” He realized this excuse was somewhat lame and the look on Krager’s face showed that she thought so, too. 

She turned to Pierson again and did a double-take at the expression on his face. She reached out and tapped his shoulder, bringing his attention back to her. Studying his eyes, she said gently, “He has been known to take mortal lovers.” 

Dismay flashed across Pierson’s face. The look in his eyes turned bleak. “I can’t. I’d have to give up the Watchers. You know, we took the same oath.” The oath, never to interfere in an Immortal’s life, never to tell them that you were there, watching them and reporting everything you knew they did. Never ever to let them know you were not alone. The oath that Joe Dawson had broken with his assignment, Duncan MacLeod. 

“You wouldn’t have to tell him you are a Watcher.” 

A hollow laugh was drawn from him. “No, perhaps not. But it wouldn’t be fair to him. Immortals who take mortal lovers...” he closed his mouth and looked at Dawson, eyes asking for help. The older Watcher encouraged him with a nod. “The older Immortals especially tend to lose track of time passing. Personal change for them is a slow process, they have the weight of years in one mode to counter a mode they might wish to assume. So when an Immortal falls in love with a mortal, he becomes conscious of time rushing by. However old the Immortal is, he knows the maximum number of years he’ll have with a mortal. So he makes himself part of her life, involves himself deeply with his lover, because that person will change so quickly and so soon be lost to him. And he cannot bear not to have as much to remember as he can.” He ended his small speech, staring at his upturned palms on the tabletop. 

Krager studied his hands, too, noting the slight tremor in his fingertips. “You sound like you speak from personal experience.” 

“I do.” He closed his eyes to hold in the tears. His voice choked at times. “I met this woman here. Alexa. Absolutely lovely, a face like the Madonna. But she rarely smiled and usually it was just a polite smile. Except she really smiled at me.” He turned a questioning glance on Dawson, who nodded agreement. “I loved to see her smile. She had a wistful beauty about her. When I asked her out she turned me down. But she looked so sad when she did, I couldn’t let it go. Finally Joe took me aside and told me that she was dying. She had cancer, and the treatments weren’t stopping it. She didn’t have quite a year left.” He remembered how astonished Alexa was, that someone as young as she thought he was would be willing to tie himself to sharing her painful last year of life. But if he was going to know her at all, he would have to do it now. There would be no second chance. “I took a sabbatical, and we followed the paths some of Methos’ Watcher’s followed. That gave me an excuse to take Alexa all over the world to see any place she wanted to see. Methos got around a lot. Paris, Greece, Egypt. I tried to fill her last months with all the things she never had a chance to do. Yet when the cancer finally incapacitated her, I found myself willing to do anything to save her. There just had not been enough time.... I wanted her to be an Immortal too.” He stopped suddenly, realizing that while talking about Alexa he had come very close to breaching his cover. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

“And now you find yourself attracted to an Immortal, and you want to know more about him because he, too, can be lost. Though there are no clues as to when.” 

At her words, Pierson looked up to see if she mocked him. She seemed serious and even sympathetic. Nor did she seem troubled much by breaches of Watcher protocol. “I suppose so.” 

The woman stood, then re-settled cross-legged on the floor. She rubbed her hands lightly on her cheeks and closed her eyes for a moment. Opening them, she assumed a wise and semi-secretive expression. “Listen then, my sons. To the tale of the Four- who-were-Three. Gather ‘round and listen, I shall tell this tale to thee.” 

**Part 2: Riding Into the Chronicles**

* * *

Once upon a time... 

Achmed Al Khazar watched his assigned Immortal meet his end. Ibn Al Sur and the strange Immortal had been fighting for nearly an hour. They were well matched, both of extreme experience and skill. The stranger was beardless, and from this distance Achmed could only identify him as being tall, yet of Mongol ancestry. He had watched Ibn for almost fifteen years, and never before had the desert Immortal met someone he could not defeat within minutes. Now Ibn fell, and the other Immortal’s sword swooped down, separating head from shoulders almost without a sound. Achmed felt a moment of profound sorrow. This was how life was for Immortals. You fought and lived as long as you could, against that one terrible moment when you failed in your fight, and the accumulated energy of your lifetime leapt from your body to weld itself into the victor’s soul. The victorious Immortal stretched his arms up into the sky, mouth open wide as the light of Ibn swirled around him. Lightning arced from fingertip to fingertip, and a whirlwind obscured the scene with flying sand. Though it only went on for a few moments, it seemed to go on forever. 

The sand floated down. The strange Immortal knelt next to Ibn’s body. Achmed recognized the attitude. He was praying for his enemy. Now he moved away into the early evening. To Achmed’s dismay, there was no way to follow him without being noticed,. He would have to go to a settlement and send his report, and try to find a way to get a Watcher on this Immortal. 

The settlement did not have a name yet. On the western bank of the Volga River, at the crossroads of navigable arteries and trade caravan ways, in the future it would become a thriving commercial center. Now there were only the vaguest indications of times to come. 

Waiting to be reassigned, Achmed took employment with a rich merchant, Saddam Ben Sur, and soon regretted his choice. The man was a sadistic tyrant. Every slave in his household carried scars from beatings. Most of his employees were safe, though the less fortunate of them were forced to endure humiliations. Achmed was ready to give his notice of resignation and work for considerable less money just to be away, when he discovered the Immortal. 

One of the house-slaves had grown into a stunning beauty. Her hair was long and lustrously black. Her eyes were dark as a desert moonless night. Her skin was as fair as Corinthian alabaster. Since she had matured, the master decided to take her for his own. The girl, her back criss-crossed with scars from childhood beatings, stared at him in plain terror. She was unable to do anything but huddle far away from him. The master was furious with her lack of appreciation for his generosity. He told his men to beat her to death. When they finished their bloody work, they threw her body out into the courtyard for the vultures. This was too much for Achmed. He and three others went to give notice. 

It was at the moment they passed by that the girl awoke. The others gaped then began shouting. Achmed tried to interject, “A miracle!” while the other men went on about djinni and family curses. The commotion attracted Ben Sur. When he and his men came into the courtyard, they stopped short upon sight of the girl. Ben Sur stared at her and a smile of utter smugness spread across his face. 

“Allah akbar! I am rewarded!” he shouted joyfully. He strode forward and scooped up the girl. Laughing, he threw her struggling form over his left shoulder and strode back inside, sliding his right hand up between her legs. 

Every single man in the courtyard was too astonished to speak. Mouths hanging open they stared after him. Achmed broke the silence. “By Allah, the man’s insane!” 

* * *

This changed everything for Achmed. Sending in his report on the new Immortal, he stayed with the household to keep an eye on her. In the meantime almost everyone who could resigned. Some who could not fled. Ben Sur was neglecting his business in favor of his new toy. His own family avoided him. 

Despite his natural thoroughness, Achmed began to be vague in his reports. He admitted that Saddam Ben Sur was constantly torturing the girl. He would leave her exposed in the courtyard until she died of hunger or thirst. He would flay her and watch as the skin healed. Almost the worst, in Achmed’s opinion, was when Ben Sur stabbed the girl and raped her using that hole. Achmed mentioned this, but could not bear to go into detail. 

Achmed began going out into the settlement. He whispered about the girl to musicians and travelers. He was sure that as the tale spread it would attract an Immortal. The girl would be freed, one way or another. He wrote in one report, “I find it horrifying to imagine that this is all her chronicle will contain.” Eventually, it seemed, his efforts had their desired effect. 

* * *

Foreign traders always arrived with the spring caravans. Saddam Ben Sur broke out of his obsession with the girl to carry on business. The courtyard was filled day after day with merchants and their attendants. It only cleared briefly three times a day, when the devout said their prayers to Mecca and the prophet Mohammed. At first the two men and their servant did not stand out particularly. They wore the clothing of the region, they spoke the language fluently. Then the local merchants learned what they brought to trade. They had with them five mares of the finest horseflesh known, Caspians. Merchants stumbled over themselves to get the foreigners to trade withthem. Yet they seemed most inclined to deal with Ben Sur. 

Late one day they brought the mares to his courtyard. There were few people present, as most of the business of the day had been concluded. The men had told Ben Sur that they did not want large groups of people to upset the mares. The horsemen who advised him ran their hands gently along the small mares’ long, straight backs, feeling the silky coats. They admired the vaulting shape of the skulls, the wide nostrils and delicate in-pricked ears. The men’s servant took the horses through their paces. All who watched admired their smooth grace. 

One of the horsemen whispered, “These are the horses King Darius of Persia carved into the walls of his own palace, fifteen-hundred years ago!” Everyone knew that if Ben Sur had these mares, he would have an excellent bargaining chip to win himself real rank in the royal circles. For the Caspians have always been the horses of royalty. 

Goods changed hands and bills of sale were signed. The previous owners asked to stay to see the mares bedded down for the night. Ben Sur gladly agreed, providing them with the finest food and wines for their pleasure. And in the night, silence and stillness settled upon the rich man’s home. 

Days later Achmed sent in his report. 

In the dead of night, the two men and their servant dropped their act. The three Immortals slipped into the main household. In silence they killed the guards. In silence they entered Ben Sur’s chambers. Then in a flurry of movement they caught hold of him, gagging him and tying him spread-eagled on the floor between four posts. The European and the small Immortal stayed withBen Sur. The third went for the girl. 

Ben Sur had left her chained naked in the garden, shivering in the night air. When she felt the other Immortal she fled to the end of the chain, whimpering and quaking. He stopped where he was and unwound the cloth from his head to reveal his face. The girl made a choked sound and stared at him. He moved closer, within the range of her chain. Kneeling, he rested his weight back on his heels and allowed her to see him in the moonlight. An Asian, his black hair fell in thick waves to his shoulders. In this light the cast of his skin was not noticeable, but thick dark eyebrows winged over black, wide-set eyes. Full lips were in perfect balance with the rest of his features, though his jaw was just ever so slightly off-kilter. Moving slowly, he held his right hand out to her. “You’re safe now, night-flower.” His voice was gentle and soothing. Drawn in spite of her terror, she came close enough to reach her own right hand out to touch his fingertips. She closed her eyes and edged closer until his arms encircled her ever so gently and she was pressing into his robes, which fluttered slightly in the night breeze. She felt his head tilt and lips brush her hair. “I’m going to remove your chains now, night-flower.” 

She would not open her eyes. This had to be a dream, a handsome prince come to rescue her from the devil. The imprisonment of metal on her left wrist was replaced by cool night air. Now the man slipped his arms back around her and gathered her up with him as he stood. “We have Ben Sur alive for you,” he whispered. “You may do as you please.” 

He removed his outer robe, sliding its sleeves onto her arms. She felt dizzy with relief every time she looked at him. It was disorienting to walk beside him. A lifetime as a slave insisted she should crawl before such a lordly man. They were almost at Ben Sur’s quarters when the feeling hit her, a double-impact of hair-raising scratching insects upon her skin and skittering in her empty stomach. She reacted immediately, fleeing the way they had come. The man caught her, using up the momentum of her dash in a spin. They wound up against the wall some distance down thecorridor, that feeling gone. Terrified that he would be angry with her, she peeked up at his face. He was smiling at her. “We are your brothers, night flower. As you feel us, so we feel you.” 

“You cannot die?” she asked, realizing what he meant. 

“We do not die easily,” he corrected. “You have much to learn.” 

“I wanted to die,” she told him and saw the set of his face become grim, the warm eyes turn cold. He only nodded. “Where are our parents?” she suddenly asked. 

She had surprised him. He gazed back at her for a moment before shrugging. “We have none. We are your brothers because we are alike.” 

“Do we have names?” she prodded. 

His eyes warmed again. “I am Dige. What is your name?” 

She dropped her eyes. “A slave’s name.” 

“You can choose any name you like, night flower.” 

His simple statement was like the removal of chains from her heart. She straightened her shoulders and took a step away from him. Turning, she gazed emotionlessly at her former master’s doors. She took a hesitant step, then another and soon was walking swiftly, Dige following with a spring in his step. She walked into that strange doubled-feeling again, but this time chose to ignore it. As she opened the door it faded into the background just as it had when Dige came to her. 

Her courage almost failed her at the sight of the two strangers, one tall with the pale skin of the distant crusaders and eyes like metal, the other just a boy and Asian like Dige. Both nodded a polite greeting to her. Past them on the floor lay Ben Sur, and she was shaken by sheer hatred at the sight of him. The boy had a mangled fruit he was eating off the end of a lovely dagger. She edged over to him and asked shyly, “May I use your dagger?” 

He considered the dagger, then looked over his shoulder at Ben Sur’s form. Turning back to her, he slipped the fruit off and held out the dagger. “Afterwards, I will show you how to clean and sharpen it.” 

The hairs rose on her flesh again. She quelled her unease. “Dige said I have much to learn.” 

She began with his favorite instrument of torture. She slit the skin on his penis until it hung in strips. Then she cut open his scrotum to remove his testicles. Her intent was to skin him, but the dagger kept slipping in her hand. The boy came and showed her the proper angle. She had to reset her hold several times before she kept it automatically. Saddam Ben Sur was no longer trying to scream through the gag. He simply made sounds. She cut off his toes, then his fingers. Moving to his face she met the mad, pain-filled eyes. “Allah akbar, I am rewarded!” she hissed through her tears. She took his nose, his ears and sliced holes in his cheeks. Finally she removed the gag, soaked as it was in blood. He was making inarticulate noises. She did not feel quite finished. After a long moment’s indecision, she sliced out his tongue. 

* * *

They took their five Caspian mares and left. Achmed Al Khazar went with them. His reports to headquarters once again came alive with detail, apologetic in explaining that the girl, now called Mariah, felt of him as a father to her. Their home lay half way around and some five miles from the Caspian Sea. The quarters for the Immortals were small buildings the men had built themselves. Here they kept a herd of some hundred Caspians in fine fettle. Comfortable stables for care of the horses seemed made with more attention than the Immortals’ residences. They kept detailed records of the bloodlines of their horses, ready to provide it when they sold any. This, Achmed learned, was extremely rare in part because the Immortals loved their horses. 

Mariah’s sword training was at first primarily Tran’s duty. Since he was small, he could teach her to prevent a battle from becoming a matter of strength. Within a year it expanded to include Dige and Grey. Between the three of them they taught her to fight under a variety of conditions. When not fighting, Mariah and Grey both spent a great deal of time with Achmed. 

Achmed often suggested ways they could improve their moves. He also called upon his knowledge of Immortal history to suggest some more bizarre situations they might want to be prepared for. Grey was impressed with Achmed’s ingenuity, and they soon became fast friends. 

* * *

“Oh, finally!” Methos snapped. 

Melinda said imperiously, “Shush. I had to lay a foundation first. You’re a child of our time, all right. Always demanding instant gratification.” 

* * *

At the time of Achmed’s birth, Grey was already over two thousand years old. He was born on the large island now called England and raised by a small people who lived in its interior. He stood out among them even as a child, for they were a dark-haired, dark-eyed people. Not a peaceful folk, they warred incessantly with neighboring tribes. Sometimes they worshipped at the great stone circles. Grey was adopted by the tribe’s shaman who saw to it that Grey, like himself, got the best of the food and few treasures the tribe owned. 

Then Grey died in battle. 

When he rose, his tribe realized their foundling was a god. They were pleased, for they had taken such good care of him the gods would undoubtedly reward them. Even the shaman bowed before him. Consumed with his own arrogance, he took over the tribe. In the space of a few years they became even more ferocious warriors. Within a century they ruled their neighbors. They no longer had to forage, they had slave-tribes to do it for them. They became fat and lazy, except when they worshipped their private god in the stone circles and sacrificed slaves to him. He was the soul of his people, strong and alive. Because of him they maintained their traditions and sense of self. 

Eventually another Immortal came across him. This other Immortal spoke of the world, even other parts of the island where cultures had developed farming and were developing writing systems. He taught Grey about the Game and the tantalizing unknown but much guessed at Prize. Grey, towering over the other, challenged him. Laughing as he related the tale to Achmed he said, “I didn’t stand a chance. My size didn’t intimidate him. He had speed and agility and experience I didn’t. I asked him after, why would I want to leave? Other people were making these advances, my people would do the same. I will never forget his answer.” All laughter was gone from him. “He told me my people would never advance with me present. As long as I was there, unchanging, they would refuse to change. But the rest of the world would keep on going, and my people would die, unable to compete for a place. Change or die.” When he looked at his people he realized it was true. Even before his first death people were always coming up with new ideas. Now nothing new had been invented in three generations. Grey finally left with the other Immortal and never came back. 

He loved the short-lived horses. Sometimes he did not remember which horse was which, thinking they were the same as ones hundreds of years before. Still it was easier in this remote land. Without his heart being attached, he was not disturbed by the changing world around them. “It isn’t easy,” he confessed. “We leave sometimes. If we don’t we could never keep sane.” He directed his words to Mariah, who listened thoughtfully. 

“I did not like my life. It will not disturb me if it vanishes.” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

In the passage of time Khazar weakened. He assembled a package, addressed it and before he died gave it to Mariah and made her promise to send it after his death. The package contained his final report to the Watchers. 

..........................

Silence lay for a long time. Joe Dawson glanced at the clock to see that he only had an hour until the bar opened. Pierson raised his head from the tabletop. “Is that all?” 

She shrugged. “That was the closest Watchers ever got to them. From then on their chronicles read more like other Immortals’. A little less so, because they live alone at the ranch.” She unwound her legs and straightened up, stretching her arms toward the ceiling. She settled primly into a chair at the table. “Once every hundred and fifty years, the Four travel into Vietnam, possibly to Tran’s birthplace. There’s always one Watcher among the people hired to care for their horses while they’re gone. Sometimes Dige and Mariah leave together and socialize with other Immortals. That’s how they locate someone good enough to challenge. Since the invention of cars, planes and electricity they leave more often, every few years.” She leaned her chin into her palm, elbow on the table. 

Pierson dropped his chin on his hands and regarded her thoughtfully. Fixing his golden eyes on hers he muttered, “There’s something you aren’t telling us.” 

She looked straight back at him. “There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

The two men had remarkably similar expressions on their faces. Pierson started to speak three times before settling into a trapped silence. Dawson pursed his lips and pulled his chin down to his chest. Creatively, he gave her his best imitation of Duncan MacLeod’s hurt-puppy look. 

It cracked her up. She caught her breath quickly. “All right, keep your secrets. There were never any tales told about Mariah.” 

She let that statement hang in the air until they could not bear it. “So how did they find her?” Dawson asked. 

“Khazar led them to her. Dige was the Immortal who killed Ibn Al Sur.” She allowed them some time to digest this. “He put it all in the report Mariah sent. I don’t think he told them about the Watchers because they never seem to have noticed any of us. We do keep inconspicuous, after all. That’s why we know in such detail what she did to Saddam Ben Sur. He was there.” 

“Why did Grey attack this Immortal, then?” 

She leaned down and met Pierson’s gaze directly across the table, but addressed her words to Dawson. “Does MacLeod come to your bar often?” 

“Uh, when he’s in town.” 

She nodded her head slightly. “They’ve staked out the bar. Grey probably thought that other Immortal was MacLeod or Ryan.” She lifted her head and turned her gaze upon Dawson. “Would you like to know why I chose this time to come to the bar?” Both men nodded. Dawson set a fresh Daiquiri in front of her as a bribe. “Today is the anniversary of Achmed Al Khazar’s death. They go to Holy Ground this time every year to pray for him.” 

“Of course.” Pierson nodded. Even as he remembered Alexa, Mary and all the other mortals who were important in his life. 

“Actually, I can tell you something about Grey that’s more recent.” She leaned conspiratorially toward Pierson, who was all ears. “He loves the play ‘Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat’. He goes to it every three years. After the first time he went and had all his I.D.s changed to read Joseph Grey.” 

“Why does he like it so?” 

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe he knew Joseph. Next time you see him, see if you can work it into the conversation.” 

Pierson pulled back. “What makes you think I’ll see him again?” 

She looked amused. “I am his Watcher. And I think you are just his type.”


	2. The Things we do for Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Methos tells Joe the story of when he and Ramirez walked the coast of England, starting with a conversation with Darius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The walk around England takes place around the same time as the Four became... Four.

  
**Part 3: The Things We Do For Friendship**  


* * *

Pierson woke to the buttery scent of the omelets Dawson was cooking. He sat up, wide awake. Dawson’s omelets were not something to be missed. He found that at some point in the night he had wound up sideways on the sofa bed. Something was different this morning. He sat on the edge of the bed in his blue boxers and tried to put his finger on the change. It was within him. He felt energized, whereas especially in the last few weeks he had felt stuffy, his head filled with cotton. Today everything felt clear. As soon as he identified the change, he knew the reason. 

He had finally accepted Silas’ Quickening. What rang in him now was Silas’ capacity to enjoy rather than simply endure life. Just as Kristin’s Quickening had re-awoken his sensuality and sent him after Alexa, Silas’ Quickening re-awoke his enthusiasm for living. 

Thinking of Silas led him back to his battle with Grey and his mind flashed hungrily at six times in that fight when he could have disabled Grey and then taken his head. It was not that he only now perceived those weak spots but that previously he had no desire to take advantage of them. Then his thoughts leaped to battles with MacLeod and he knew three moves that MacLeod was easily vulnerable to, the third would send a sword or better a dagger straight into his heart. Methos dragged his thoughts away. He vowed not to engage in any sword-sparring sessions with MacLeod or even Grey until he had control of his impulses again. The last thing he wanted was to kill a friend or potential friend without conscious intent. “Morning,” called Dawson from the kitchen. Methos shot off the bed and into the kitchen only to ooze into a chair. Dawson set a plate in front of him with a huge omelet. The Immortal thanked him and set enthusiastically to eating. Dawson shut his lips on a laugh. He had been taking notes ever since they first met about Methos’ extraordinary ability to relax. The braces that held Dawson’s artificial legs on made it difficult to emulate him, but he attempted it anyway, sitting next to Methos. They ate their breakfast in companionable silence. Following a standing tradition, Methos cleaned the dishes and went to close the sofa bed. The two men sat down on it. “So,” Dawson began, not looking at Methos. 

“Hmm?” 

“What were you up to that century?” 

The memories loomed fully in Methos’ mind, with all their attending surreal emotions. He smiled and began to answer Joe. 

* * *

  
**Gaul (Now France), 973 AD**  


The chapel was almost new, its walls clean and unchipped. Methos was often bemused by the new designs architects came up with. But today, as he handed most of his personal affects to Darius, one thought kept running through his head until he had to speak it. “How did he talk me INTO this?!” 

Darius, who was deeply curious about the books Methos had carefully packed, looked at him. There were times when Methos could not bear to meet those eyes. Darius, for all his youth, had an absolute serenity of self that Methos lacked. Other times under the pretext of engaging him in a staring contest, he would try to absorb that calm. He suspected that Darius understood exactly why he did these things, but out of kindness did not comment. The priest’s rectangular face, his bizarre pale eyes, did nothing to detract from his amazing serenity. It made it difficult, almost impossible, to believe that less than five centuries before he led a conquering army to the gates of Paris itself. 

Now Darius’ eyes were filled with secret laughter. “He is very enthusiastic. Just what is so upsetting about walking the coast of England?” 

Methos muttered a few choice profanities under his breath. Most of his best were in dead languages, but with Darius you never knew how much he understood. He picked up one of the four swords that were the only weapons they would be carrying and held it out for Darius’ inspection. He knew what the priest would find: an extraordinarily light-weight metal for something so solid. Darius gave a few practice swings and Methos felt a pain in his heart. Don’t let living on Holy Ground make you complacent, Darius. Or you won’t survive a battle for your head. For as more years stretched behind him, more Immortals would try to challenge him. 

“It is a fine weapon,” Darius said. He read Methos’ face with startling ease. “I will not make myself a target, Eldest.”The warmth and stability radiating from him tempted Methos to retreat here for a time. But no, though he had done so in the past, he did not need to do so now. “Well we are not walking the coast of England, we are walking AROUND the coast.” 

Darius took a moment to digest this. “In the ocean?” At Methos’ reluctant nod he seemed even more amused. “Yes, how DID he talk you into this?” Over the course of the day, Darius managed to get Methos to swear he would describe the entire trip when he returned. That evening two Immortals, Methos and Juan Sanchez, took a small boat on the Seine. When they reached the ocean they used another boat to cross the English Channel. 

On a bitterly cold day, at ebb-tide when the bones of the beach lay bare, two men stood. They carefully tested the solidity of the knots that secured them together by one strong rope. Methos, sure of his, finally faced the water. It seemed unending, and he knew it would be horrifyingly cold. A curious numbing blankness grew in his thoughts. “Well, Old Man,” Sanchez piped up cheerfully, startling Methos out of his absorption. “Whatever is the matter?” 

Methos swung his head around to look tightly at him. He drew in a long, wavering breath. “For as long as I can remember, I have had a fear of large bodies of water.” 

“I will be with you. I will not let anything happen to you.” 

The two men studied each other over the few feet between them. What Sanchez had somehow made seem an interesting project was, in the face of the sea, a step into a terrifying unknown. Yes, he would wake up from any death that did not take his head. Nonetheless, years could be lost and the world unrecognizable when he returned. Methos suppressed his undefined fear and forcibly turned back to the sea. “Ready?” 

“Whenever you are,” Sanchez said with a hint of teasing. 

They stepped out into the waves, feeling the water tug at their feet. Soon they had to swim and within seconds were well away from shore. Treading water, their arms and legs numbing, the two men faced each other. There was no pre-arranged signal. They took a long moment to stare hungrily at each other’s faces, just in case something unexpected happened. Then they both ducked their heads under and sucked the cold salt water into their lungs. 

In the instant before he died Methos remembered in a burst hands grasping at him, pulling him down under water and feet shoving against him. He convulsed and screamed. Mercifully, rising blackness blotted out all sensation. 

No continuity. Blessed stillness. Nothing unfinished. 

...until a sensation breaks the peace. A name is called. It is a name you are accustomed to responding to and so you hesitate to ignore it. It is a voice you enjoy and you are drawn to respond. You lean toward it. No!! Pressure surrounds you. Bones are leaden. You thrash and catch hands as cold as your own. 

Methos opened his eyes and shut them again quickly. It was not just the cold water beating against his eyeballs. He reluctantly opened them again when he felt something wiggle his nose. It was Sanchez. He was sure the impact of his glare lost considerable force in this blue-gray light. The merry smile on the face across from him did nothing to improve his mood. Now that the drowning and reviving was over, Methos was able to concentrate on his sensations. The act of drawing in a breath sent chills up and down his spine. Not drawing in a breath was not an option, because though his body desperately took needed oxygen from the water, it could not do so if he did not breath. Few, he signed to Sanchez, ever realize they can just walk out of the water. They wait for the tide to do it and lose the years between. 

You, too, Sanchez signed back. 

Stop being so perceptive. 

Sanchez selected a particularly large boulder and drove a dagger made of his new alloy into the stone. Methos wound the end of his cord around it and tied the cord firmly. Not all of Sanchez’s begging could worm the secret of this material out of him. But he knew it would last as long as they needed if it was not exposed to heat. Using the mathematics of the Greeks he had made the cord long enough to circle the circumference of the island twice. Regardless of impulse or curiosity, if they reached the end of that cord before they made it around the island, they would return to shore. Methos also had designed and constructed a special compass for the trip, having no intention of being halfway across the ocean before he realized he was lost. Ostensibly the trip was to test Sanchez’s new alloy under the harshest of conditions. Methos knew that they would not spend every moment sword-fighting. They began their trek. 

For two wily Immortals, sword-fighting and general existence underwater presented an invigorating challenge. Swordplay against the resistance of water soon proved extremely dangerous, and not just because of injuries. One dim day as the two men fought, a grey shape approached. The shark was almost upon them before Methos saw it homing in on Sanchez. He caught the other man’s sword between his palms and yanked him forward, using the same momentum to kick the shark in its face. The shark jerked away and moved to circle them. Sanchez gaped at the bolt-like body then swiftly brought his sword up, not noticing Methos frantically signaling “No!” His slice opened the shark’s underbelly, spilling blood and guts into the water. Methos grabbed him and began moving away as fast as he could. Over their heads they could see dark, graceful shapes arrowing toward the dying shark. The other sharks impacted upon the wounded one, tearing it and the water filled with blood as some of them attacked each other. Methos pushed Sanchez down into the sand and kept his own head low. Interesting as the idea was, he had no intention of losing his head or Sanchez’s because of sharks. Sanchez rose on his elbows, staring in astonishment at the frenzy. Methos moved his hand in front of the younger Immortal’s face. Shark meat for today’s meal? He inquired. 

You think there will be any left? Sanchez returned. 

At first they slept in the dark of night keeping their bodies tied together and anchored anywhere they could. Then they added a new factor to their personal game. Oddly, Methos started it. In the darkness and numbing cold world, his senses expanded through the medium of the Quickening. He first noticed it waking briefly in the night to chase inquisitive fish away from his face. The fish had a faint luminescence which delighted him until he saw a larger luminescence out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head to see it but could not. It remained in the corner of his eye and he seriously considered whether he might be hallucinating. He closed his eyes and relaxed, letting his body drift again on the current to the end of its tether. Sanchez’s presence rang like a bell in his mind and a splash of color surrounded it. Methos tensed and the color vanished, leaving him in blackness. He found this terribly interesting. 

By morning he was exhausted, but he had twice succeeded in deliberately seeing the glow surrounding Sanchez. It was like a shimmering shell of bluish light. It rippled and flickered softly as he slept. Methos was disgruntled by the faint sunlight which filtered through his eyelids and made it impossible to concentrate on this new way of seeing. 

Convincing Sanchez was not as difficult as he thought it might be. The younger Immortal was already widely traveled, having been born in Egypt. He eventually made Spain his base of operations, living in his House of the Wolves and leaving for twenty years every forty years to come back as a son or younger cousin of himself. Now only Methos knew his original name but politely never used it. There were many Immortals who left their past behind preferring not to see the alien place their homeland had become. Methos did not have this difficulty. He would not recognize his birthland if he fell on it. He would jokingly say he probably had. 

The two men altered their sleeping schedules to attempt to stretch their limits again. Living half in the underwater sunlight and half in the depths of night, as they traveled on the seabed. They marveled over the changes their shimmering auras went through. Concern lit the auras with swaths of yellow, challenge to battle flashed sparks and wafts of red. After a typical night-time session they would sign in the daylight when I did that, what did you see? Sword-play in the dark gained a new dimension. Unfortunately the aura telegraphed their moves and it soon became impractical to play at night. In time they became aware of the lesser auras all around them. By comparison with the Quickening, the life-forces of fish and lichen were so small that one could hardly notice them. After they did, Methos remembered something he had not done in centuries. 

It’s time for you to be my student again, he told Sanchez one day. 

The other man folded his legs and let himself hit the sand, disturbing a small cloud of fish. What is it? I always knew you were holding back. 

Methos glowered and slicked his hair out of his eyes. He stood motionless except for the drift of the currents. Closing his eyes he accepted the wash of auras against his other senses and soon they faded into the background. Now he listened, and reached for the distant voices he heard in the water. Somewhere there was a singing. His heartbeat meshed with the heartbeat of another being. He whispered to it, invitingly. It turned in the water and came in his direction, taking utter joy in the feel of movement. Something butted up against him. He opened his eyes still feeling his heart beating in time with someone else’s. Sanchez was grinning from his seat. The water around them was filled with dolphins. Methos gripped the dorsal fin of the nearest and it took him hurtling through the water. He felt a spike of mingled amusement and jealousy from Sanchez. The dolphin circled with him and brought him back to his friend. 

To talk to animals you have to bring your thoughts in line with theirs. And your body or they will treat you as alien. This simple fact was the basis of what Methos taught over the next several weeks. Sanchez tried. He reached out his thoughts and meshed with other creatures. He was never able to call them to him, but he could feel their energy and match it with his life force. 

Sanchez’s swords withstood the rigors of the sea quite well. Between reading each other’s auras, swimming with the dolphins and exploring sunken ships the two men were far from bored. They collected some of the gold pieces they found, realizing it would be easier than searching for the hidden stash they left behind when they went into the sea in the first place. Eventually the time came to leave and rediscover life on land. Using the dolphins as scouts, they found a quiet beach where no one seemed to go, and trekked in to shore. 

When their heads broke the surface of the water, they took slow breaths. Their hearts seemed to give a startled leap. Then they were drawing in air in huge lung-fulls as their hearts labored to pass pure oxygen to starved tissues. Blackness tunneled around their sight under the morning sun. The two leaned heavily on each other as they staggered onto the beach and up to the debris piled on the tideline. The Immortal healing which had sustained them during their long underwater journey, was working to complete its function. 

Sanchez’s breathing was almost normal when he looked over at Methos. He burst into laughter. Methos, leaning back against as sun-bleached log with his eyes closed and an arm thrown over his face to keep out the sun, opened one eye. The snickering man beside him was dressed in green in the daylight. Which was amusing, considering his clothes were red when they first entered the sea. His skin had a silvery-green cast which, upon closer reflection, was in snowflake patterns. Methos brushed his fingers along Sanchez’s nose and cheeks. The skin seemed slick and yet gravelly. “Do I look as bad as you?” he asked. 

Sanchez nodded, not able to speak for laughing. He pulled himself together and reached both hands out to cup Methos’ chin and cheeks. The skin felt so strange he started laughing again. He held his breath for a moment to quell it. “You know, I think it’s grown into your skin!” 

“Well we can’t be seen looking like this. We’ll have to get it off.” 

Sanchez released Methos and scrubbed briefly at his own cheeks. Silvery glop clung to his fingers. He looked up at Methos who shook his head. All Sanchez had done was remove the silvery coating, leaving behind a thin, white crust. 

“It looks like more drastic measures are called for,” the older Immortal said resignedly. He began to peel his wet, salt encrusted clothes off. The clothes had not protected his body from this invasion. “Gods, it’s everywhere!” 

Sanchez studied him critically. “It certainly is. Just what do you have in mind?” 

“I’m going to kill myself, and you’re going to skin me.” 

Sanchez launched himself to his feet, too late to stop the man who turned a sword under his own ribcage and pushed deep. He thanked the gods that Methos, knowing he would revive, did not fight death and so die in slow agony as a mortal might. He caught the crumpling form. It took an effort not to waste time on the shock of seeing this dear friend’s face twisted in pain. The sword in his heart would keep Methos dead for only a short time before the Immortal healing attempted to revive him to remove the weapon. Sanchez began to skin him as quickly as possible. 

Methos woke, safe and comfortable with strong arms wrapped loosely around him. The cool breeze from the ocean was a pleasant sensation. Legs shifted underneath his bare back. “I know you’re awake. Get up, please. My legs are asleep.” For all his words, Sanchez was gentle in helping Methos sit up. He kept his hands on the other man’s shoulders to steady him. 

“I’m all right.” Methos breathed deeply, feeling stronger every second. When he felt completely revived, he turned a mischievous smile on Ramirez. “Now it’s your turn.” 

They lay side by side, eyes closed, enjoying the warm sunlight. However, the afternoon was waning and the air was turning chilly. “I’m not putting those clothes back on,” Sanchez said suddenly. 

“How will you keep from freezing?” 

“We can go steal clothes tomorrow.” Sanchez rolled over, sat up and placed his palms firmly in the sand on either side of Methos’ shoulders. He did not touch the other man, giving him plenty of room to move away. “Tonight we could keep each other warm.” 

Methos opened his eyes wide and gazed in surprise up at Sanchez. Incongruously it occurred to him that bald like this, he looked extremely Egyptian. And he was very brave to make this bold offer. Meeting the other man’s deep, dark brown eyes was a mistake, for they held all the warmth and humor of the world in their depths, offered with true affection. Methos felt he might shatter under the pressure. “I can’t-” he began shakily. “I can’t take advantage of a student like this.” 

“I’m not your student anymore.” Sanchez cocked his head with a rueful smile. “You weren’t my first teacher, but when you told me that you’d taught me everything you could and it was time for me to go, I was terrified. Terrified enough to try something I’d never even considered in an attempt to make you change your mind.” 

“I remember.” 

“Yes. I’ll never forget. I snuck into your bed and when you found me there you kicked me out, shouted that you would never take advantage of my fear. And the next day you were gone. You didn’t wrap up your affairs or secure your investments, you just left. And I was relieved you hadn’t taken my offer.” Astonishingly, the brown gaze intensified. “I’m not frightened at all. I want this, with you. I’ve never wanted it with any other man.” 

Methos licked his dry lips. He tried closing his eyes, but his new ability worked against him. Sanchez, limned in blue with streaks of challenging red, and yet a pervading golden warmth that reached toward Methos. He gasped and opened his eyes, but Sanchez had not moved. Methos’ body was tingling. 

“It’s not your looks,” Sanchez began. “Your nose is big and you’re thin as a rail despite your muscles. It’s not your eyes,” he paused and leaned his head down, perilously close. “Well, perhaps it is in part your eyes. It’s just you.” Sanchez shifted, putting his weight on his left hand. Flicking sand away off his right, he brought it to hover just over Methos’ chest, so close that a deep breath would bring them into contact. Methos was paralyzed, unable to balance his own desire with his determination not to take advantage of another person’s weakness. Sanchez read it either in his aura or his face. “You are older than me, but in our mortal years, I’m old enough to be your father.” It was true. Sanchez had died in his fifth decade, and Methos at the end of his third. “Really it is I who am taking advantage of you.” 

Methos could not help it. He laughed, and the movement brought his chest into contact with Sanchez’s fingertips. It was like a shock of burning and tingling heat rolling through him to all points. Almost beyond thought, Methos caught hold of Sanchez’s wrist and pressed the hand tight against his chest. He met the other man’s gaze at last with an answer. 

* * *

“You did, didn’t you?” Dawson asked knowingly. “You made love to him.” 

Methos smiled faintly, his eyes hooded. “He was always more difficult to refuse than MacLeod.” 

“Now THAT is scary.” 

Methos frowned, off on another train of thought. “You know, they look extraordinarily alike.” 

“Who?” 

“MacLeod and Sanchez.” 

“Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez,” Dawson reminded him. 

“Hmm. Well I knew him longer as just Juan Sanchez. If Immortals weren’t sterile, I’d swear MacLeod was his son.” 

“Yes, well Ramirez died his last death about four decades before Mac was born. That would be one hell of a gestation period.” 

“Reincarnation!” Methos exclaimed, snapping his fingers and grinning. His eyes fairly danced with laughter. 

“And how does this follow?” 

“Well, Sanchez was Connor MacLeod’s teacher. He died protecting Connor’s woman from the Kurgan in Scotland. Ergo he comes back as Duncan MacLeod in Scotland.” He blinked innocently, rolling his shoulders back in a slight shrug. 

Dawson snorted. He thought for a moment and then directed his curious gaze into Methos’ eyes. “Why was it so hard for you to say yes to him on the beach?” 

Methos’ lips parted. He hesitated for a very long time. Finally he bowed his head and said, “I told you, I didn’t want to take advantage of his weakness.” Dawson waited patiently, until the old Immortal shivered and laced his fingers together. Finally Methos began speaking. “Even after I left the Horsemen, I was still Death. Death on a horse. I had to choose every minute of every day NOT to terrorize people. Choose not to attack homes I passed no matter how hungry or cold I was. I fought to make that part of myself wither away. I never again took slaves because I could not - could not fight off the instinct to abuse them and - and fill myself on their pain and fear. Even by the time Ramirez was my student, I still had to fight myself not to hurt him, not to break him. And I hungered for it, Joe. I hungered for that power over another.” 

Dawson got up and moved to the closet. He brought out one of the blankets and draped it gently across Methos’ bare shoulders. The Immortal looked up at him with almost pathetic gratitude. Dawson sat back down and said, “That explains why you wouldn’t bed him when he was still your student. And why you fled. You had to get away from the temptation, just like an alcoholic. But why did you feel you were taking advantage of him on the beach? From your description he knew and wanted very much what he was doing.” 

Methos smiled sadly and sighed. “Because I am the oldest Immortal. I’m at least a thousand years older than anyone else.” 

“So you’re saying he liked older men and you were the only older man he knew?” Dawson joked. 

The Immortal snickered, but became grim again. “No. There Can Be Only One. And that One will win the Prize, whatever it is. We live every day with the knowledge that we may someday face our students or teachers because there is no one else to fight. Some of us go mad.” He pulled the blanket tighter around him, crossing his long legs underneath him to keep them warm. “Sanchez had to seduce me because he could not take my head.” 

Dawson thought about that. He supposed it could be a possibility. He thought of how MacLeod behaved toward Methos. As far as all their records indicated, Mac had never taken a male lover. And yet he seemed to flirt with Methos, his eyes a sultry burning flame when the two sat in deep conversation at Joe’s bar. But then he took a more careful look at the lonely man beside him, and another thought that had a feeling of rightness sprang to mind. “Is it so hard to believe that another Immortal could love you?” 

Methos’ head shot up. There was a strange horror in his eyes as he met Dawson’s frank gaze. He blinked and tore away, trying to hide the tears that burned his eyes by burying his face in his hands. “Damn you, Joe,” he mumbled. Dawson put his arm comfortingly around the other’s shoulders, and they sat like that for a very long time.


	3. The First Battle (or "What in Hell?!")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan MacLeod fights a very small Immortal, who might have died when he was ten. Or 12. Or maybe he's just very short. And he has a bone to pick with Methos.

  
**Part 4: The First Battle (or “What in Hell?!”)**

* * *

When you are an Immortal living in the Twentieth Century, finding a place to practice sword-fighting without people looking strangely at you is a challenge. You have to resort to buying private property because renting would run the risk of having a snooping landlord. Thus Duncan MacLeod - who owned a Dojo, used to own an antique import company, and had considerable funds in hidden accounts - owned a warehouse set well away from prying eyes. 

The interior of the warehouse was like a survivalist’s training ground. Several terrains were duplicated; rocky, slick, muddy, loose gravel. MacLeod stood in the midst of one of the stable areas, practicing his sword moves. He had already worked himself into a sweat. It felt good to put his entire concentration on the feeling of his own strength coursing through his bones. Swinging the sword in an arch he spun and danced a few steps forward... into an all- too-familiar sensation. His first thought was that Richie was in town until he looked up at the Asian boy sitting on top of one of the gravel piles. He was saved the embarrassment of thinking he faced a mortal by the ageless eyes. 

The lesson learned with Kenny was a wound that never quite closed. He raised his sword. “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” 

The boy returned his gaze, smiling slightly. After a moment he said, “I am Tran.” He waited until MacLeod stirred uneasily before adding, “I’ve come to challenge.” 

“Have you.” MacLeod eyed Tran. To all appearance, he probably died when he was eleven or twelve. He sat there, making no unnecessary motions and seeming utterly calm. Almost serene. Either he was much older than Kenny, or he was simply sane. MacLeod hated when the Game brought these situations his way. “We don’t have to do this,” he tried hopelessly. An Immortal committed to a challenge never listened to his offer of peace until after he beat them. 

The dark eyes acknowledged his statement, but of course there was no yielding in them.

* * *

MacLeod was born in 1592. He fought often over the centuries, and learned within the first not to let arrogance drive his battles. By the end of the second he knew that a woman could be more dangerous than a man. 

The first child-Immortal he met found him gunned down by Johnny Rebs in the Civil War. MacLeod left him at a safe house while he went to find the slaves he was leading across the lines. Unfortunately another Immortal found the boy and took his head. MacLeod was just near enough to see the Quickening light the sky. He hated himself a long time afterwards for not taking the time to warn the boy of the danger he was in. 

The second he met in 1994. He stumbled upon Kenny, who was frantically trying to hide in a boatyard. A golden-haired boy with an angel’s face and a manner of perpetual terror. He died when he was ten, and said that was in 1990. In truth he was well over eight centuries old. He survived by tricking soft-hearted Immortals into protecting him, then taking their heads when their guard was down, usually with their own swords. Kenny proved to be vicious, and deadly to anyone in his path. Still pained by his failure to protect the first boy, MacLeod ignored the warnings of Joe Dawson and his student Richie, until Kenny almost killed him. 

And now here was Tran, Kenny’s polar opposite in every respect. He unfolded a cloth at his side and took out two fine blades. MacLeod’s practiced eye recognized a pair of twin Wakazashi much like the pair he kept on display at his Dojo. Perfect weapons for a small Immortal. Tran held them with expert hands and came down to the floor. 

They faced each other and both bowed. Straightening up, MacLeod noted the little smile which curved the edges of Tran’s lips. Had he been full grown, Mac would have tried to wipe that smile off his face. Tran moved lightly, closing the distance between them. Despite his misgivings, MacLeod felt the Immortal call to battle. Testing, he feinted for Tran’s neck, but the other slid away from the blow, making no attempt to block it. Then Tran moved, slipping under MacLeod’s guard. There was the brief cold shock of a Wakazashi against his side before he spun away. Ignoring the pain and trickle of warm blood, he scolded himself for not being more careful. Kenny may have been near useless with a sword, but this was not Kenny. He tightened his guard and was able to turn aside Tran’s next strike with ease. MacLeod went on the offensive, driving Tran back towards the gravel pile. He noted that Tran avoided clashing the swords together. Of course if the challenge was strength, the boy stood no chance. But Tran drew him to over-extend himself, and this time scored two hits. One laid open MacLeod’s ribs and the other hamstrung his leg. A mortal would have been a dead man from the blood loss, but not him. MacLeod shifted his stance to rest his weight on his good leg and brought his Katana around, feeling it connect. He managed to turn and see Tran fall and roll, leaving a swath of blood on the floor. His strike had opened Tran’s back. Perhaps that would take the little smile off his face. Separated by several feet both Immortals paused to give their bodies time to heal. They watched each other warily. 

The slash-wounds healed quickly, but MacLeod’s leg was a deeper injury. Tran was moving in again, intending to strike while MacLeod was still slowed. A gleam in his eyes, the tall man ignored his healing leg, focusing on the boy in front of him. This Tran was fast and agile, and there was no shame in fighting his best against him. MacLeod slashed out, his sword catching Tran’s shoulder but the boy was already falling back and around. He did not seem to notice the pain. MacLeod’s leg could take his weight again. The two began circling each other, eyes locked watching for a hint of the actions to come. Tran came in close again. MacLeod blocked the Wakazashi with his Katana and managed with a “Fluttering-comet” move to send the right-hand one flying away. Tran grinned in appreciation of the move, then once again took advantage of MacLeod’s height, his left Wakazashi biting across into MacLeod’s stomach. MacLeod, in blinding pain, still caught the sword, just barely preventing himself from being disemboweled. He got a grip on the hand holding it and wrenched up, twisting. The sound of Tran’s arm breaking and his gasp of pain almost stopped MacLeod. Then Tran slammed his knee into MacLeod’s torn stomach. MacLeod threw the boy over his hip in a haze of white pain. He focused outward quickly to see Tran fetched up against the gravel pile, holding his twisted arm, face deathly pale. 

The world steadied, bloodlust fading as Tran became less an Immortal than a boy injured by MacLeod’s hand. The pain in his gut transmuted to guilt. “We can end this, now!” he called desperately. 

Tran smiled faintly in response and shook his head. He came to his feet, transferring the sword to his right hand while the injured arm dangled uselessly. He moved toward MacLeod, who frowned and watched him suspiciously. Tran caught his eye, again challenging him with that little smile. The boy’s arm finished healing and he moved more gracefully, full of boundless energy. MacLeod, who had received more serious damage, was beginning to get a hint of the bone-deep fatigue that came after healing. It occurred to him that this might be Tran’s objective. He steadied himself, finding his center and feeling adrenaline coursing through his veins. He would not let this small, crafty fighter under his guard again. 

* * *

**Monday, 1:30AM**

MacLeod arrived at Joe’s after closing. He had a lot of questions for the Watcher. Just before reaching the entrance he felt the usual gut-tingling that marked another Immortal’s presence. He opened the door. Methos. Of course, after the events of the day it WOULD be Methos. His hesitation was so brief that no casual observer would have noticed it. But the other two men were not casual observers and they did notice. A month ago MacLeod would have been amused to see that Joe had suckered Methos into helping him clean up. Now he could not stop the doubtful frown as he sat at the bar. 

“Hey, Mac, welcome back!” Joe quipped, setting a malt liquor in front of him. 

“If that’s the kind of lyric you’re putting into your songs, don’t expect a big career,” MacLeod responded, goaded into smiling. He recognized Joe’s exhaustion despite the forced cheer and felt impelled to join Methos in cleaning up. It occurred to him that Joe had learned to use his mortality to get them to do what he wanted. He caught the lurking humor in Methos’ eyes and knew they had the same thought. 

There was little to do after a Sunday night, and soon the three men settled down at a table. MacLeod was a bit shy of asking his first question. The last time he asked Methos a question like this was at the beginning of a tumble of nightmarish events. He hoped this would not turn out similarly. “What do you know about an Immortal named Tran?” 

He felt a brief relief as Joe and Methos exchanged amused glances. “He was in here for a drink around noon, Saturday.” 

Caught by surprise MacLeod asked, “A drink?” 

“A coke,” Joe interjected, feeling that Methos was getting carried away. 

“Well how - how old is he? Where did he come from? Who is he?” 

Joe stopped Methos from responding. “Has he challenged you?” 

MacLeod dropped his eyes, muttering “This is like drawing blood from a stone.” Exasperated, he looked up under his brows at Joe. “Yes, he challenged me. It’s all over. You won’t be breaking your oath if you tell me about him.” Noticing the consternation on their faces he grumbled, “He’s alive, okay?” 

He glared indignantly at them as the two men consulted each other in the silence of expressive eyes. It came to him that he was being teased. They would tell him but were in no hurry. “Look, this hasn’t been one of my better days! If you don’t tell me what you can, I won’t tell you about the fight.” They both looked pleased as punch. Damn, he thought. 

“We don’t really know that much about him,” Joe began. “We began chronicling him when he showed up during the 10th Century in Astrakhan, you know where that is?” 

“Russia, where the Volga River runs into the Caspian Sea.” 

“Yeah. Only it wasn’t called Astrakhan then. He arrived there with two adult male Immortals we think were his protectors. They rescued a new Immortal there, she became their student. We have reason to believe he came from Vietnam. We have no records of him ever taking a head.” MacLeod nodded, distracting Joe. “We do know he only fights Immortals who’ve got themselves a hell of a reputation. You should be flattered.” 

“Has he ever lost?” 

“What?” Joe stared intently at MacLeod, who glared back at him with an attempt at wounded dignity. “Actually, I don’t know.” 

“That’s pretty much all we can tell you, Mac,” Methos added. “Anything else would be interfering in the Game, and you don’t really need to know more.” 

MacLeod sighed. “Your side was easier than mine,” he complained. Now he leaned forward and began telling them about his encounter with Tran. 

* * *

The ending was almost as unexpected as the beginning. Tran came in close again. MacLeod recognized at once that Tran would try a third time to move in under his guard. He feinted another strike for the boy’s neck and as Tran tilted away, changed the angle of the strike to break his back as he ducked down. What happened next would only come clear in later reflection. 

Tran jumped high, MacLeod’s Katana narrowly missing his feet. His hands came down on MacLeod’s hands and his right leg came up to slam violently into the tall man’s nose. The world vanished in a flare of multi-colored light and shattering pain, as though he no longer had a body and his head was ballooning fit to burst his skin. Tran swept MacLeod’s legs out from under him, rotating him so fast that his head slammed into the floor with the entire weight of his body behind it. There was a sickening, damp crunch when it hit the concrete. His body continued its trajectory, his toes slapping the floor, a knee slamming into his nose. That was the last impact his battered consciousness registered before it lurched for the blessed blackness behind the spinning supernovas that blinded him. His body flopped over on to its right side, curled loosely into a fetal position. He looked like a broken toy. 

Tran gazed down at the fallen man, noting the blank, dead eyes. He laughed a short, hard laugh and shook his head. “You are everything they say, MacLeod.” Holding his descending exhaustion at bay, he retrieved his other Wakazashi. He walked stiffly as his body still sported bruises and pulled muscles which were slowly fading. In short order he washed himself off and changed clothes into the spares from his backpack. He sat down on the left side near MacLeod’s head and rested his forehead on his knees. He let himself slide into foreverness: that instant before sleeping when he felt the movement of the planet beneath him. A long-conditioned corner of his mind remained alert for the flutter which would signify MacLeod’s revival. 

As the darkness lifted, Duncan MacLeod was aware of myriad discomforts. He lay on his side on something hard, cold and bumpy. His nose was obstructed and he had to breath out of his mouth. Something on his head kept it from moving and there was something else cold and sharp against his neck at an angle--sheer terror stopped his cataloging. It’s over! Defeated and immobilized. As fast as it came the terror was replaced by a relief he never thought he would feel. It IS over. He would not have to watch Joe grow old and die. He would not have to fear every day for Richie, Amanda or his dozen other friends in the Game. Every knot accumulated in four hundred and five years of life untangled and opened up, leaning toward the nearby presence in preparation for MacLeod’s death. 

“Do you yield?” Tran asked him. 

Despite the many times he defeated an enemy and let him go, it still astonished him that someone would come and offer him that option. Hope and disappointment warred briefly within him, but he was never suicidal and did not intend to start now. “Yes, I yield.” 

Tran removed his hand from MacLeod’s forehead and began cleaning his Wakazashi. MacLeod rolled over onto his knees and stood up gingerly, his hands moving to his nose. Ah, the obstruction was dried blood. He hesitated, looking down at Tran. “There’s a shower,” he began. 

“You look like you could use it.” 

With the battle over, Tran no longer wore that tiny smile but looked steadily at him. MacLeod realized the smile was just part of Tran’s strategy to rattle his opponent. It worked rather well, too. “Yeah. I thought you might like to first.” 

At that Tran smiled. “I’ve already washed and changed.” 

Of course. MacLeod noticed now the absence of rips and tears in Tran’s dark clothes. He hurried to the shower, suddenly afraid Tran would be gone before he made himself presentable. No long, relaxing hot shower as he wished. He rushed through it. 

Tran was still there. He sat against the gravel pile, deep in thought. MacLeod approached him, not quite certain what he wanted to say. He squatted down, bringing their heads to the same level. He had to consciously prevent his fingers from twining together. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Some were non-sequiturs like: “How can you be so different from Kenny?” Others were questions you simply do not ask a stranger who has beaten you. Not until you know them better, at any rate. 

“Why didn’t you take my head?” he finally asked quietly. 

The distracted gaze turned without surprise to him. “I gave up gratuitous head-taking long ago,” Tran answered indifferently. Silence stretched again. MacLeod stared at his hands. He pressed his fingertips together so that the skin turned white. He was still groping with words when Tran spoke again.”Listen to me, MacLeod. You rely too heavily on your strength and stamina to carry you through. Usually that is enough. But there are occasions when they are useless. Then all you have are wits, guile and faith.” 

“I always thought I had all that.” 

“Oh, you do. You use it to supplement your strength. But you need to reverse that priority.” 

MacLeod nodded, thinking about all the times he heard similar sentiments. The old ones always said things like that. Darius, Rebecca, Cassandra, even Methos. Each with lives measured in millennia. Of course, only Methos had ever said he did not get to be his age by being concerned about other people. And Darius and Rebecca died, one lost forever to a murderous mortal and the other in the Game. It was small comfort that he had taken Rebecca’s killer, and so the sum of her life still existed somewhere within him. “I don’t understand. If this fight didn’t have to end with a Quickening, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” 

Tran laughed and shook his head. “Then you wouldn’t have fought as hard. I need to hone my skills in true-combat situations. It’s no good if I know I’m safe.” He gathered his feet under him and stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulders. “Things to do,” he said with a shrug. 

“Wait!” MacLeod stood up. He felt disoriented to be looking down at Tran so he stepped back. “I want to know about you. You must be very old.” 

“Old enough.” Tran considered for a long moment. “Perhaps I’ll stop in at that Dojo of yours before I leave. Next Monday. No guarantees, there are circumstances I cannot speak of.” He nodded politely and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he said, “Live, MacLeod. Grow stronger. Fight another day.” 

“You know M-” he barely cut himself off, but it was already too late. 

Tran turned in mid-step and stared at him. He stood utterly motionless, his gaze fraught with darkness and banked fire. “Say it.” 

MacLeod was paralyzed. The familiar phrase had surprised him. The expression in Tran’s eyes meant trouble. He tried for a moment not to answer the question, but this was the man who beat him and let him go, and he bared his neck to him. “Methos...” he said, barely above a whisper. 

Tran closed his eyes and seemed to stop breathing. Time stretched to the breaking point. Finally he opened his eyes, the strange expression muted. “I never met him. But obviously you know him.” He took in the panic on MacLeod’s face and closed his eyes again. “What do you think of him?” 

What do I think of him? That was not a simple question. Memories swirled. Most recently, when he learned of the horrors Cassandra had suffered because of Methos three thousand years ago. When he asked Methos, his throat constricted by thoughts of things he did not want to know, “Did you kill all those people?” 

And the reply he pushed Methos to finally give. “I killed, but I didn’t just kill fifty, I didn’t kill a hundred... I killed a thousand. I killed ten thousand! And I was good at it. And it wasn’t for vengeance. It wasn’t for greed. It was because I liked it. Cassandra was nothing. Her village was nothing. Do you know who I was? I was Death. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is that what you want to hear? The answer is yes. Ooh, yes.” The strangled wail in Methos’ voice as he said that, the self-loathing that MacLeod was too full of shattered... worship... to let himself care about. 

Well before that, the third time they met, when Methos came all the way from Paris to warn MacLeod that Kristin had arrived and was involved with Richie. “Do you know how many Immortals she’s killed? Do you want a list?!” 

“You know what she was to me!” MacLeod had protested. 

“Yes, and I know what she IS! A killer. You treat her like one.” Not surprising, when he thought of it, that Methos would not be concerned with the past, just with the present. And in the end, because MacLeod could not bring himself to, Methos had taken Kristin’s head. 

“The world was different! I was different!” And yet the other Horsemen; Cronos, Caspian and Silas, had not changed at all. They were the same murderous, sadistic monsters they had been three-thousand years before, when Methos was one of them. 

So many other little things. The precious singularity that was Methos. I can’t let anything happen to him. It almost surprised him that he still felt that way. “Sometimes I don’t like him,” he finally said. 

Tran opened his eyes and gazed intently at him. The banked dark fire was still there, but seemed less fraught with peril. It was more considering and he wondered what Tran was reading into his statement. Finally Tran spoke, almost to himself. “Jesu said ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ I. can. let. it. go.” The darkness in his eyes said that he had not convinced himself. But he turned and continued out the door. 

“What did he do to you?!” MacLeod called. He wanted no more surprises from Methos’ long history, there was too much he still needed from the old man. 

“He killed my first teacher,” floated back through the door. “She would not be his slave.” 

* * *

“Methos, who was she?” 

“I killed a lot of people. I don’t know if any woman had a child-Immortal for a student.” 

“He’s not a-” 

“I know. You stopped thinking of him as a child when he beat you.” 

The two glared at each other across the table. MacLeod had clenched his jaw and his lower lip was stubbornly out. Methos’ back was straight and there was a defiant gleam in his eyes. For his part, Joe Dawson was trying not to show his amusement. It would be interesting if it ever came to blows between these two. He was sure Methos had some tricks up his sleeve that would put the bigger, tough Scot at a disadvantage. Then again he could just be biased in favor of the old one. He knew what it was like to have unforgivable sins in your past. After all, he lost his legs in Vietnam. 

MacLeod turned to the mortal. “He’s old, Joe. At least two-thousand, I’m sure of it. And I’ll bet you those men he was with were not his protectors. Probably someone he beat and they became his students.” 

Joe raised his eyebrows. “That’s a pretty big leap.” 

“Yeah, well you didn’t fight him. He’s...” he paused, groping for words. “He’s fantastic. Everything an Ancient should be.” 

Methos relaxed, sliding back in his chair. “Now you sound like Richie.” 

“Yeah, well at least now I know why you’re the only guilt-free man in the world.” 

“Gentlemen!” Joe interrupted. He held up his hand between the two and was relieved to see that they both looked embarrassed. “It’s getting late. As much as I enjoy hearing you two bicker, I’ve got to go home and sleep.” Now they looked guilty. 

MacLeod got up quickly. “Sorry, Joe. We’ll get out of your hair.” Methos raised his eyebrows at being included. The Scot turned to him. “You gonna come make yourself at home?” he asked almost belligerently. 

“Actually, he’s my guest,” Joe announced as he gathered his coat. 

MacLeod was accustomed to finding Methos crashed at his place when the old Immortal breezed in to town. Or in a hotel room if he was staying long and brought a lot of work. He wrestled briefly with an uneasy feeling that he should keep Methos near him. Tran was in town, but he did not know what Methos looked like, or almost certainly all hell would have broke loose Saturday morning. “Fine,” he snapped, and flushed at the indignation he heard in his voice. Softening his tone he added, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe.” He nodded with strained politeness to Methos, and left the bar. 

In the dark of night, his arms wrapped around the pillow on Joe’s sofa bed, Methos was not asleep. He had told MacLeod the precise truth, without answering his question. And he provoked him so that he would not notice this avoidance. There were only a few possibilities for Tran’s teacher, always assuming she was Immortal. They were from very early in his Horseman period. Each of them placed Tran some centuries shy of four millennia. Two of them sat high on his list of regrets. He smiled into the pillow, thinking of all the things MacLeod had told him without knowing. His Quickening open and vulnerable after his defeat, he was an easy target for a much older, powerful Immortal seeking information. Tran had simply held down his defenses. When asked what he thought of Methos, his emotional state probably told the other much more than the few words he spoke. 

Methos’ smile vanished as he remembered what he had done with his Quickening. Tak Nae, the “young” Egyptian Immortal who appeared on his doorstep one day. Methos thought he could teach a student, especially one with this extra-ordinary brightness. It was not until he recognized the growing, subtle fears in the young one that he realized he should not teach anyone, at least not yet. Unaware, he had slashed at the more vulnerable man. He was slowly breaking that brilliant cheer and confidence in a savage attack made all the worse because it was subconscious. It took that Immortal three hundred years to locate Methos again. But by that time Methos had himself under control, and Tak Nae had a new name and greater strength. They became friends. 

Now he was no longer puzzled over what happened. He left the Horsemen well over a century before that, and though on the outside he rid himself of the trappings of Death, a good deal of it remained to be exorcised from his inside. Three thousand years later he still avoided people and situations that called too strongly to his darkness. He supposed that was what he liked so much about MacLeod. The young Immortal was convinced that you were either one or the other. He had a limited grasp on the concept of “gray areas”. In his short life he had seen madness and grief. He was forced more than once to cut down former friends like mad dogs. Yet still he clung to the idea of absolutes. There was something touching about that. 

Methos breathed a sigh into the pillow. MacLeod still had to face Grey, Mariah and Dige. At least he knew the time- frame, it would be over by next Monday. He’s going to have an interesting week. It was just as he dropped off that he thought: one of them is going to die.


	4. Whatever Will Be, Will Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MacLeod fights Mariah. Methos talks with Tran and finds out who his teacher was. MacLeod fights Grey. Grey and Methos tantalize each other. Methos wins, hahah.

  
**Part 5: Whatever Will be, Will be**

* * *

**Monday, noonish**

Joe Dawson had two timelines specially encrypted on his computer. One for Methos and MacLeod. The other just for Methos. Joe worked very hard only to put confirmed facts on that timeline. That was tricky. Now he added Tran to it, having cajoled Methos into telling him about when he must have killed the mysterious teacher. The timeline, as one might expect, was becoming complicated. 

c. 3000 B.C.E.  |  Took his first head.   
---|---  
c. 1200 B.C.E.  |  Saw Helen of Troy.   
c. 1005 B.C.E.  |  Approximate birth of the Kurgan.   
c. 1000 B.C.E.  |  Found Cassandra. Left the Horsemen.  
Grey born in this time period.   
c. 781 B.C.E.  |  Methos vanishes.   
c. 490 B.C.E.  |  Juan Sanchez (Ramirez) finds Methos again.   
470-399B.C.E. lifespan  |  Friend of Socrates?   
100-44 B.C.E. lifespan  |  Says he knows Julius Caesar’s favorite food.   
51-30 B.C.E. lifespan  |  May have known Egyptian queen Cleopatra.   
1 A.D  |  Definitely did not see Silas after this date.   
38-68 A.D.  |  Associated with Roman Emperor Nero.   
500’s A.D.  |  Darius, at the gates of Paris killed an Immortal Holy man, then disbanded his armies and became a priest.   
764 A.D.  |  Methos crossed the Atlantic to Iceland with Irish Monks.   
965 A.D.  |  Tran, Grey and Dige find Mariah.   
973 A.D.  |  Methos walked around England’s coast with Sanchez IN the ocean.   
1368-1644 A.D. Era  |  In and out of China during the Ming Dynasty.   
1453 A.D.  |  Studied medicine in Heidelberg (Germany).   
1491 A.D.  |  Watchers overhear that Methos cannot remember time before taking his first head.   
1518-1536 A.D.  |  Connor MacLeod’s pre-Immortal lifespan.   
1541 A.D.  |  Ramirez arrives in Scotland to teach Connor MacLeod.   
1542 A.D.  |  Kurgan kills Ramirez.   
1592-1622 A.D.  |  Duncan MacLeod’s pre-Immortal lifespan.   
1625 A.D.  |  Connor MacLeod finds Duncan and teaches him.   
1795 A.D.  |  Last time Methos fought another Immortal.   
1880-1906 A.D.  |  At some point rode with Butch and Sundance   
1985 A.D.  |  Methos joins Watchers as Adam Pierson, researcher of self.   
March 6th, 1995 A.D.  |  Duncan finds Methos.   
  
All the “real” work must be credited to Fanomethos. The site theirs used to be at is long gone. 

The ancient one was rarely forthcoming about his life, though he did have a distressing tendency toward name-dropping. He knew the names of many people famous throughout history. Knowing their names and history did not prove he actually knew them. Often after a conversation with him Joe tried to isolate what Methos had actually said he was involved in from what was merely mentioned as fact. 

Joe, who always enjoyed subterfuge, occasionally woke in a panic at the thought of what might happen if the other Watchers discovered that he knew where and who Methos really was. But to take a page from “Ye Old Immortal’s Tips For Living A Long Life:” When in doubt, don’t worry about it. He laid a possessive hand on the diary Methos gave him Thursday night. The weary man, digging his way under the blankets on the sofa bed suddenly popped up. “I brought you a souvenir.” He waved vaguely in the direction of his bags. “It’s a book.” 

Joe could see the hard outline against the side of one of the bags. Long conditioned to handle books with care he brought it out gently. The cover was new, and so were some of the last pages. But the first pages felt and looked exceptionally old. He glanced at the lettering. Oh man. The words and grammatics were confusing, though the letters were easy to make out. The writer had no patience for embellishment, he was inclined to utility rather than form. Especially toward the beginning the letters were clumsy, but the first thing they said was quite clear once Joe’s mind translated the ancient English: “I do not believe Methos is dead. I will find him.” This book was Cronos’. 

Joe looked over at Methos, who appeared asleep already, long fingers dangling over the side of the bed. “Why give this to me?” he wondered softly aloud. 

“Because you are dedicated to the truth. And I’ve checked, nothing in there will guide a stranger to me now.” He was silent for so long Joe thought he really had fallen asleep. Finally he added softly, “It will show you how he found me.” 

Perhaps soon Joe would have time to read it. 

* * *

**Evening**

MacLeod was on his way to Joe’s when his flesh started crawling with the Immortal early warning. He glanced around cautiously and found himself meeting the gaze of a woman across the street. She stood like a statue, the breeze moving the fabric of her long, pale coat. She did not turn her head to look straight at him but faced approaching traffic. Only her eyes acknowledged him. Her stance was stiff and alert. MacLeod knew challenge when he saw it, so he crossed the street as soon as he could and approached her cautiously. 

As he closed in, she shifted her position to meet his eyes directly. The restless hunger in her gaze considered the way he moved. He locked his knees and drew himself to his full height. Instinct said to prowl, seek weakness and blind spots. Not in public, however. They were already attracting some nervous attention just by standing there, sizing each other up. 

“I am Mariah.” She had a high-pitched, reedy voice. It was steady, and her accent reminded him of the Middle East. 

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he countered, tilting his head courteously. 

She held out a card to him. He took it, read the address and met her dark eyes. “When?” 

“Tomorrow. One o’clock.” 

They nodded stiffly to one another and went their separate ways. It was only when he reached Joe’s, well out of the reach of her provoking Quickening, that he realized she was beautiful. 

* * *

Joe took a long break in the middle of the evening, and they sat in his office. Duncan swirled his liquor and brooded for a while. “Joe, I was challenged today by a woman named Mariah.” 

“Are you going to fight her?” 

Duncan frowned into his drink. “I hate fighting women. There are so few of them among us.” 

“And if truth be told, you’ve met most of them.” Joe folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head sideways, inviting Duncan to talk. 

Putting his index fingers together and restlessly tapping his lips with them, Duncan’s frown deepened. “I think Sharon Collins was the most pathetic case,” he muttered finally. “I met her in 1896-” 

“May 20th, the day Axel Whittaker took her head.” 

Duncan shot him a half-hearted glare. “Thank you, Watcher.” 

“She’d been Immortal for twenty-three years, Mac. It wasn’t your fault he never taught her to fight.” 

“I know. I just can’t stop feeling that if I’d taken her out of there when I realized what was going on-” Duncan stopped, aware of the futility of this line of thought. Axel kept Sharon helpless and used her to distract men so he could take their heads. When he tired of her, that was it. “Irena’s case was almost as bad.” 

“Irena Galati.” Joe grimaced and shook his head. “One of Horton’s victims.” Having his wife decapitated before his eyes and being forced to take her Quickening sent Jacob on a killing rampage against the Watchers. He could not - or would not - know that the Watchers who murdered her were renegades. 

“And there’s Claudia, out there on her own.” Duncan took a long draught and set the beer down heavily. Once he discovered the seeds of genius alongside latent Immortality in a child. She grew into a vitally beautiful, feisty, spoiled musical prodigy. Then an Immortal murdered her to preserve her at her peak. At first delighted, she lost that vital spark of genius in her playing. “She felt she was nothing if she couldn’t play. She wanted to die.” It was in the fear of death that she found her music again. Thus she refused training or protection and continued her life as before. Yet there was a vital difference, palpable to the senses. No longer feisty and spoiled, Claudia was an almost eerie presence more ephemeral than mortals. 

“And you’re still kicking yourself because you aren’t there to protect her.” Duncan nodded sheepishly. “Who’s protecting Grace Chandel?” 

“Now she’s entirely different!” 

“I concede. She is five centuries older, and a scientist this century. How does she protect herself from other Immortals?” For Grace carried no weapons but her startling self-possession. Duncan snorted and turned away from Joe. The bartender snickered quietly. “A random woman challenges you and you assume she’s like these women. What if she’s more like Felicia Martins?” 

“Is she?” Duncan pounced. 

“You don’t need me to tell you. You suspected something from the start.” 

“Yeah, well a young woman throws herself off a building, sneaks out of the morgue and shows up on my doorstep. Her ‘I’m new’ act was just a little too much to swallow. And she went after Tess, and threatened Richie.” Felicia’s modus operandi, to slay a man’s surrogate family and then take down her distraught victim. 

“You should have killed her.” 

“I couldn’t do it in front of Richie. She seduced him, you know.” 

Joe nodded solemnly. Then he chuckled low in his throat. In answer to Duncan’s quizzical expression he said, “She’s not the only one.” 

“Oh, don’t bring Kristin into this! At least she happened AFTER he became Immortal.” Duncan met her in 1667. Almost the first thing she did was seduce him, then take away his clothes and start to re-make him, teaching him fine wines and fine clothes. But she took and took and gave nothing back until he had to leave. Then she went into a fury and tried to kill him. She did kill an innocent girl. History almost repeated itself with Richie. “You’re right, I should have. But I didn’t and Methos did it for me.” He remembered Methos looking at him across the sand, an expression of quiet resignation on his face. Someone had to, he said in the instant before the Quickening hit. 

“Or like Nefertiri,” Joe mused. “Now there’s an incredible story. She was in a sarcophagus ever since Cleopatra died. You ever figure out how she spoke English?” 

“There are things you just give up wondering about.” Duncan blinked rapidly several times until the lump in his throat faded. “Maybe she absorbed it hearing people talk all the time in the museum.” 

When Cleopatra committed suicide to escape Roman enslavement, Nefertiri turned on her Roman lover, the Immortal Marcus Constantine. He was urging surrender knowing they could not win this fight. Millennia later he found her sarcophagus and kept it at his museum, while he tried to come up with a strategy to awaken her and convince her to let the past go. Renegade Watchers stole her, and the feel of her Quickening passing by attracted Duncan’s attention. He managed to rescue her. Eventually she seduced him. Then she killed Marcus’ mortal wife and forced Duncan into a challenge, sure that he would not be able to kill her because she had bedded him. She was wrong. 

The painful lump returned. “Or like Ingrid,” Duncan said roughly. “She believed she was saving the world and I executed her for it. I... don’t - I can’t convince myself I had the right. Remember Nicolae Breslaw? After he shot Ingrid, believing he killed her he had the same problem. There he was lighting up cigarettes and he says, ‘Maybe if I die a little tonight, it will even things out between me and God.’ I’m Immortal. I don’t have that option.” 

Ingrid felt responsible for not shooting Hitler when he stood before her. Ever since then she traveled the world, executing anyone whose rise to power resembled his. When her kills spiraled out to include hapless bystanders, Duncan was forced to admit she had to be stopped. 

“God you’re depressing,” Joe growled affectionately. “Dwelling on the dead, the helpless and the mad. You’ve still got some of my favorites out there!” He began ticking them off on his fingers. “Amanda, Annie Devlin, Ceirdwyn, Gina and Cassandra!” 

“Don’t forget May-Ling or Rebecca.” 

“Back to the dead again.” 

“Well the living aren’t necessarily that great. Amanda is an incurable reprobate, Annie is an IRA terrorist, Gina’s been married to Robert for over three-hundred years, and Cassandra is furious with me because I wouldn’t let her kill Methos!” 

“And Ceirdwyn?” 

“Well, she’s perfect.” 

Joe scratched his chin idly. “Perhaps I should tell Amanda you called her an incurable reprobate.” 

“Don’t even think it!” But at last Duncan’s black mood was broken. He could even look forward to the next day’s challenge. Not all challenges ended in death, after all. 

* * *

The address proved to be that of a condemned apartment building. The owners of the property were in litigation, so no work was being done. This pointed to research. MacLeod entered the building cautiously. Nothing came flying at him in the dim, dusty entrance. No sudden sound of a gun being cocked and fired. Even the strongest Immortals were known to use such measures to help ensure victory in battle. He cautiously made his way up the stairs. As he reached the fourth floor he stepped into the buzz. He peeked over the landing cautiously. 

The fourth floor already had all its walls knocked down and most of the rubble cleared away. Sunlight filtering in through dirty windows lent the place a golden tinge and gave it an eerie sense of abandoned beauty in the empty space. It occurred to him that he might like to buy this building and renovate it. Then he located her. 

She sat in the darkness between two windows, her legs crossed. Now as he took the final steps up, she flowed to her feet and moved forward lightly. She had abandoned the long coat and wore a loose white blouse and skin-tight satin pants. Short black boots completed the ensemble. He noted the well-defined muscles of her legs. Nice. He always liked strong women. And she had great dark eyes in a long, oval face. His attention leaped to her weapons. In her left hand, a sword which reminded him of an Archer’s Sword. Wide at its base, long and fine-edged. It seemed just a little strange and he suspected it was made specifically to her requirements. Which indicated resources if not native talent. The weapon in her right was a Crusader’s Dagger. Small, light, excellent for parrying and stabbing. 

The pre-fight tension which had been building since he accepted her challenge the night before, leaped full on him. He drew his Katana from its hidden sheath in his trenchcoat, folded the coat up and held the sword with both hands. Moving smoothly counter-clockwise toward her, he spoke. “Do we have to do this? I’d rather talk about those swords of yours.” 

“In time there will be only one,” she answered calmly, circling with him. “If there is an after today, we can talk then.” 

Oh good, he thought. It’s optional. 

They reversed course, watching each other move. Measuring the length of a step, reach of an arm. Though committed to battle, there was a certain element of laziness in their movements. As if they had all the time in the world. She chose to break it first. She leaped lightly forward to slash with her sword. It was simple enough to turn the blow aside and twist from the secondary jab of the Dagger. He whirled in to slash at her and she neatly avoided his sword. But she attempted to pin his arm with the dagger and he fell backwards to avoid it. On his feet again, he prowled toward her, calculating a lunge, his eyes agleam. She froze for a moment, staring at his face in wide-eyed surprise, then fell into a defensive crouch, her eyes burning. She waggled her dagger tauntingly. 

Duncan whirled suddenly, swinging his sword to angle down toward her. Expecting a lunge, she was caught by surprise but managed to deflect him with her dagger. The force of his spin toppled her onto her side and that was a very bad position to be in. Intending to stop the fight quickly he swung his sword down toward her head to frighten her. She kicked out and he found himself falling atop her. She somehow managed to bring her sword between them and as his Katana bit into her shoulder the sharp edge of her sword dug into his chest. Bone stopped both weapons. The two kicked free of each other, coming unsteadily to their feet. Neither backed down. Both began to stalk even as their bodies healed. 

They danced back and forth across the room. Mariah avoided clashing swords, spinning away from Duncan’s attacks. Duncan had to use some fancy footwork himself to keep her from injuring him further. It occurred to him that there was something vaguely familiar about her style. As she suddenly changed tactics and almost slipped under his guard, he realized what it was. She fought much like Tran. The girl from Astrakhan. She had to be! And Tran had come to challenge him, worried about her. It fit. In a way, Tran had asked him not to take her Quickening. His words, “I need to hone my skills in true-combat situations. It’s no good if I know I’m safe,” were the litany of a worried teacher. 

Duncan’s distraction cost him. Mariah moved under his guard again. He quickly brought his Katana down on top of her head only she met it with her sword. She continued forward, her sword turning the trajectory of his strike away from her. She brought her dagger up into his chest and only his frantic twisting kept it from his heart. It did stab deep into his chest puncturing a lung. 

He still had a firm hold on his sword though, and he turned it into her back under her ribs. The steel went completely through her and he twisted it to inflict maximum damage. He needed her as slowed down as he was. As he pulled the Katana out she doubled over in agony. Now! instinct demanded he turn and take her head. He would have ignored it even if she did not suddenly twist around and yank his feet out from under him. Must’ve learned that from Tran, he thought through his pain as he rolled away from her. He came halfway to his feet and looked at her. 

She had stopped, huddled around the healing wound. The look on her face... was of a personal hell revisited. Pupils widely dilated she raised her head. He realized for the moment she was beyond reason, driven by horror. Ignoring her injury, she snatched up her sword and came at him, stabbing viciously. He managed to parry most of the attacks, but between their wounds blood was pooling on the floor. 

He released all sense of obligations and compassion. He had to, if he wanted to survive this battle. On his feet again he drove her back, parrying her vicious strikes and putting all his strength into his. She was tiring. Suddenly she stumbled upon some debris and fell backwards, MacLeod falling with her. He shifted to land most of his weight on her dagger arm, hearing the bones crack. He had his Katana across her throat. Quickly he caught her sword hand and wrenched the weapon from her, hurling it across the room. She struggled wildly beneath him. He could only think of one thing to do. 

He threw the Katana across the room, vaguely in the same direction he had thrown her sword. Then he backed off her so quickly it took her a moment to realize she was free. The blind panic began to fade to be replaced by confusion. Duncan thanked heaven for social enculturation, for the only men this tactic would work with would never have challenged him in the first place. 

“Please,” he said. And he put his all into it. Gentleness and compassion, lingering comfort offered in the hand he extended to her. His expression was at its most appealing. “Please, let’s end this now. No more pain.” 

She blinked. A minute, perhaps more passed, and slowly reason slid back into her eyes while she stared at him. Finally, she nodded. “I yield.” 

With a sigh of relief Duncan sat back on his heels. He did not take his eyes from hers, though. She still looked somewhat wild. After some time, though, the tension eased. 

They sat across from each other in the light from the windows. She was carefully smoothing the tangles out of her black hair as they talked. Her sword lay between them. Duncan admired the smooth blade. It was nice to see one designed for utility rather than prettiness. When he lifted it, the grip settled comfortably into his palm. He smiled in appreciation. “Nice. Where did it come from?” 

She glanced at him, her lips twitching upward. “I made it about 1485.” 

“It’s older than I am,” he muttered. He took a few swings. The sword was too light to suit him and he preferred the balance of his Katana. But for its type it was superb. “You did a very good job. Do you still make them?” 

“Sometimes.” She considered the weapon almost wistfully. “In recent years I’ve been making farming tools.” 

Interesting, he thought. “Why?” 

“It’s what people need.” 

“Oh.” He wondered where she lived that there were people who needed hand-made tools. 

She might know what he was thinking. She certainly seemed amused. “You are very good. You kept doing the unexpected.” 

He smiled, embarrassed. “So are you. Where did you learn to fight like that?” 

“I’ve had some good teachers.” She rolled to her feet and went over to the corner where she picked up what proved to be a long, black coat. She slipped it on and came back, holding her hand out for her sword. Once the sword and dagger were safely hidden in her coat, she nodded farewell. 

“Now, wait!” he said, reaching out to catch her hand. 

She frowned doubtfully down at his hand. Feeling uncouth he let her go. She tilted her head, her eyes asking what he wanted. 

He groped quickly for something sensible to say. “Is this your first time in Seacouver?” Well, that was a start. She nodded reluctantly. “Before you go home, call me. I’ll show you around.” He held out his business card. 

A genuine smile livened her face. “I might, at that.” She took the card, bowed slightly and went down the stairs. 

* * *

**Earlier**

Methos approached the building as if he were incidentally passing by. His hands deep in his coat pockets, shoulders hunched up against the cold wind, he seemed the epitome of innocence. Not quite unexpectedly he felt the wash of another presence and stopped to look around curiously. A head popped up from behind a nearby car. “Young Pierson, over here!” Young? Methos thought, amused. Quickly he folded away thoughts of who he really was and gripped in the forefront his present identity. He hurried around to where the other hid. It was Tran, of course. Like Methos he looked very innocent, sitting there with a game of Solitaire spread out in front of him, pebbles holding the cards against the wind. 

Adam Pierson scrunched up his shoulders and squatted down to eye Tran nervously. “You aren’t going to challenge me, are you?” 

“No.” Tran was surprised, then amused. “Not until your name circulates as one of those to beat for the Prize.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

Tran hesitated before answering. “Standing vigil. My friend is in there.” 

“Grey?!” Pierson shot up, starting over the car. Tran managed to catch his right foot and yank him down, his chin connecting solidly with the fender as he slid back to the sidewalk. 

“No, not Grey.” 

Pierson glared indignantly as he rubbed his aching chin. “Yes, he said her name was Mariah. So she’s your friend?” 

Tran’s amusement vanished into dark pensiveness. He nodded once. Leaning toward Pierson he asked in a low voice, “How long have you known MacLeod?” 

“Not long, really. About two years.” He shifted position to sit beside Tran and gazed at him quizzically. “Why?” 

Tran leaned back against the car, wrapping his arms tight about his knees and looking up at the sky. “Rumors have been flying, lately. They say he tried to kill his student, and that he did kill the healer, Sean Burns.” Pierson startled at that name. He was the only witness to that murder, or so he had believed. He must put a check on Burns’ former Watcher. Tran continued, “When I fought him, I saw no sign of such monstrosity. He showed courage, determination, and a little too much honor for his own good.” 

Pierson chuckled. “That’s him in a nutshell, all right.” 

“But that is not a person who would do those things.” He chewed on his lower lip and leaned forward to rest his chin on his knees. “Me - I know of someone who was.” 

“MacLeod suffered a Dark Quickening,” Pierson said abruptly. Among Immortals’ worst nightmares, that. When the personality of the loser wiped out that of the winner. So rare it was thought to be myth. 

Tran raised his head and stared at Pierson with clear disbelief. “If that is true, why is he sane now?” 

“Methos saved him.” 

Tran’s Quickening erupted around him. He exercised supreme self-control not to resist as Tran slammed his barriers flat. Responding to the rising pain, he swayed and brought a hand to his forehead. “What..?” 

Tran’s voice insinuated itself softly through the pain. “How did Methos save MacLeod?” 

“He... he helped him m-meet himself in battle.” Confusion radiated from Tran, who pressed down. Pierson’s pain flared blindingly and he babbled. “He wasn’t destroyed by the Quickening, just broken. He had to find the courage to face and fight his dark half. Methos took him to a magic spring on Holy Ground...” The pressure was released abruptly and Pierson slumped forward. It was one of the most difficult things he ever did, letting blackness close around him with Tran beside him. 

“This simply gets more confusing,” breathed Tran. “I’m sorry, lad, that you should bear the brunt of my anger.” He took Pierson’s face between his palms, letting his fingers rest on the man’s temples and forcing the glazed eyes to meet his. He applied strong pressure and intoned, “Forget the pain. Forget the fear.” Feeling a deep ringing pass into Pierson, he released him. As the man blinked and his eyes cleared, Tran picked up the thread. “A magic spring on Holy Ground?” 

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but MacLeod swears that’s what happened.” Pierson shifted restlessly and leaned forward to get a better look at Tran’s face. “May I ask you questions now?” 

“Sure.” 

“You told MacLeod Methos killed your teacher. Who was she?” 

“Chichinquane,” Tran answered calmly enough. 

Pierson frowned, thinking. Finally he asked, “South American?” 

Tran laughed and shook his head. “We would never have met. No, she was African. I think her land is called Mozambique these days.” 

“Oh.” The silence stretched again as Pierson considered his next question carefully. “Why didn’t he kill you?” 

Tran let out a long breath. “He did not know about me.” He rested his chin on his knees again and stared off into the distance. He was trying to ignore Pierson’s steady, questioning gaze but at last he said, “All right. I owe you a story. 

“I thought I was the only survivor of the massacre of my village. Chichinquane found me. For years she did not tell me, but let me mature mentally as if I was still mortal. Then she explained and I thought she was insane. Everyone knew she was a madwoman. She was foreign, talked to spirits, her eyes did not track, sometimes she could not put whole sentences together...” 

Beside him, Pierson drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes. 

“You know the saying, ‘those who can’t, teach’? Well for many years all she taught me was mental discipline. How to center myself and hold. How to go beyond the limits of my physical strength. I learned, but did not respect what she taught. After a session she would seem completely sane, sometimes for days. I could reluctantly admit that she must once have been sane. She would be noble and witty and beautiful. At those times I resented my age at death. I would have liked to...” he trailed off, staring at his feet. After a minute he reached down and picked up the Queen of Hearts to hold cupped in both hands. He sighed. “She taught me to fight. I had to admit she knew that well. And she taught me...other things. One day, when I was about thirty, she told me Methos was coming. That he and three evil Immortals were the ones who destroyed my village. She said she wouldn’t be back, that she had to try. Try what?” Caught up inadvertently in his story, he was shaking. “She told me to leave, hide as far away as possible. I would have been angry but she was at her most sane. And she kissed me, as a woman kisses her lover. I realized she knew how I felt.” 

Pierson tentatively reached out and brushed away the tear, which had stolen from Tran’s eye. “You never saw her again.” 

“I tried to convince myself that she would be all right. But the next day I felt as if my heart was crushed. I knew. I KNEW.” He let the card flutter to the sidewalk and slammed his fists hard against his knees. Pierson slipped his hands under Tran’s and brushed the fingers open, twining them with his own. Tran took a few gulping breaths to still his tremors. “I see why Grey likes you.” 

“Oh, no. Right now you know me far better than he does.” 

“No, he’s a remarkable judge of character, especially of someone he’s fought. Look at me, I am still paranoid about MacLeod. I fought him but I did not make sure of him.” 

Pierson looked him gravely in the eye. “Would you be so worried if he didn’t know Methos?” 

Tran drew in a sharp breath, his fingers tightened. “Probably not.” He leaned closer, looking Pierson solemnly in the eye. “She talked about him sometimes. He was her first teacher and she wanted to teach me everything he taught her. Then she would begin to cry. She never spoke of him when she was sane. I thought he was dead until that day.” He shook his head, blinking rapidly and finally smiled wryly. “You youngsters. Always so curious about us jaded old men.” He drew his hands from Pierson’s and scooped up the cards. Pocketing them he stood up and took a speculative look at the building across from them. “Time to clear the area.” 

“I-” Pierson began hesitantly, getting to his feet too. “I know it was a long time ago. But you still feel it so strongly. I am sorry for what happened.” 

Tran smiled. “You’ll understand in time. Our memories don’t fade, Adam Pierson. They just get buried beneath the years.” 

“You thirsty? Joe’s?” 

“By yourself, I think. I need to be alone for a while.” Tran gravely inclined his head to Pierson, who returned the gesture. They went their separate ways. 

* * *

Methos secreted himself in Joe’s office with the Four’s records and several cans of beer. To his irritation, but not surprise, the information he sought was not in the Index of Battles. It did, fortunately, tell him where to look for more details. Deciding that seven was a good traditional number for a sampling, he looked up that many battles. Well, well. In each of the Four’s attack runs, Tran’s turn fell before Mariah’s. There were two battles against truly evil Immortals that she lost, and their Watchers of the time marveled at her survival. There was one battle that all four of them lost with - he burst out laughing - Juan Sanchez about the Eleventh Century. Come to think of it, Sanchez had mentioned a battle with a child, but he must not have connected Tran with the others. Tran was circumspect in his protection of Mariah, only influencing those likely to kill her once they defeated her. 

Methos shook his head. It was a good thing Tran could not tell that he was not mesmerized. 

His gut lurched as another Immortal came within sensing range. He got up and looked out the peephole. There was MacLeod heading through the throng to Joe. They spoke for a brief moment, then came together toward the office. Methos quickly put the Four’s records away in Joe’s desk and opened a beer. There was a knock, and he went to open the door. He and Joe exchanged merry, secretive glances as MacLeod came in. The three sat down at the desk. 

MacLeod twirled his can in his hands then looked up at the expectant men. He smiled slightly. “I suppose I should thank you for the warning.” 

This was not a moment to simper innocently. Joe had given specific identification keys when they were talking about Tran. Now he smiled in relief. “I didn’t want you to do something you’d regret later.” 

“I almost had to! She’s damned good.” 

MacLeod described the fight and what he learned about Mariah. Joe took a few notes to add to the Four’s records. They had not known that Mariah was making swords or farm implements. Was she selling them or giving them away? 

Methos idly ran a finger along the edge of his beer can. He looked under his brows at MacLeod. “Tran’s teacher’s name was Chichinquane.” He took a long drink from the beer and set it down with a thump. He had their undivided attention. The memory that knocked at the doors of his thoughts all evening burst into light. 

* * *

They were enjoying the spoils of a small village they wiped out. Caspian boiled the flesh off skulls to add to their collection. Silas played with the dogs. Cronos dozed in a patch of sunlight under the trees. Methos, however, was uneasy. 

He prowled lightly back and forth. There was something... an itch in his mind, a distant tingle. The others did not feel it, but he knew it was there. Finally he decided to track it down and remove its demanding note. He leapt onto his rangy black mare’s back and urged her into a run away from camp, not noticing a curious Silas follow after him. He rode for hours, frustrated when natural obstacles forced him to change course and pleased that the feeling continued to come from the same direction. He rode until the feeling blossomed into the full blown sense of another Immortal. And there she stood, upon a tall rock in the middle of a meadow. 

He was disoriented when he saw her. She should be wearing different clothes, her hair done up in another style. What was she doing, wearing such ugly clothing? He shook his head, realizing that she was simply in the styles of this land, and not the ones that suited her. The weapon she held was entirely of her home. It was a spear with a long, sword-like bronze blade. He scowled and opened his lips to speak, but she was faster than he. 

“Methos,” her voice reached into his head. He jerked back on the reins as it seemed a blade spliced his head. Out poured fractured, centuries-old memories. The pain reached out to paralyze him but he refused it, for one of those ancient memories slithered ahead of the others. 

A voice like a panther’s paw, soft and padded hiding terrifying sharp claws. As long as I can hurt you, I will own you. You want to be free of me? Don’t feel. Oh yes, he remembered that lesson. He ignored the memories that threatened to blind him and sent his mare towards the rock. The woman watched his approach without fear. The bronze of her spear swung at his head and he smashed it aside, but she was no longer there. She caught him and took him down, the long grasses not breaking their fall at all. Methos scrambled to his feet, jabbing at her and hissing like a snake. She evaded his sword and the wooden end of her spear cracked his skull. Simultaneously she stirred his memories and other faces loomed in his mind. He howled at them, knowing they were long dead. He closed with her, rendering the spear practically useless but also unable to effectively use his sword. After several very close calls he finally managed to pin the spear under his feet. He drove the woman to her knees and put his sword to her throat. 

“You can live, if you serve me,” he hissed in her ear. 

“No.” She slammed her head back into his. Enraged, he put all his strength into his strike and her head went flying. 

Standing above her body, he gritted his teeth and clenched his muscles, ready to ride out the pain of the Quickening. Then it hit and his mind, already battered and disoriented, was torn asunder. Layers wrenched and peeled as if she were slashing at him even now. As the Quickening ended he crumpled, eyes open and staring. His last clear memory was of Silas’ face, soft with concern, moving into the field of his vision. 

Silas brought him back to their camp tied to his horse’s back. Later they told him he was catatonic for eight days. The only memory that he held of that time was one time when he heard voices arguing. Cronos, sharp with anger saying, “He is vulnerable! And that means WE are vulnerable!” 

“He will be fine, brother,” Silas answered him equably. “He just took a bad Quickening. Leave him alone.” 

It was that conversation which brought him out of it in the end. The only thing that could stir him was the thought that only Silas stood between him and an impatient Cronos. Against the weight that held him wide open, he heaved and forced the fractured chunks of his mind together. The schism gradually closed, not to open again for centuries. Sometimes in the darkest nights he felt it, like a throbbing scar. When next they painted their faces, he reflected it by only painting his halfway. 

* * *

He told much of this memory to Joe and MacLeod. They were both avid listeners, but it was Joe whose eyes narrowed when Methos left out things. The Watcher was too good at his profession for comfort. Methos finished his narrative and took a long swig to wet his throat. “Beer. An excellent analgesic, don’t you agree?” 

“Definitely,” MacLeod muttered. 

“Hear, hear,” Joe added. They finished their drinks in almost companionable silence. 

  
**Part 6: Would You Treat Me Like The Devil Tonight?**

* * *

**Thursday, early evening**

Cat-and-Mouse games irritated MacLeod no end. Someone dogged his heels all day. Their presence slid in and out of his sensing range. He gave them the slip twice only to sense them again later. Actually this would be fun if he knew it was a friend. He was finished with his errands and goals for the day. Now he drove out of town headed for the old dam. After an hour there was only one car still behind him. They were in agreement, it seemed. The teasing was over, time to get serious. 

MacLeod parked next to the dam and waited. And waited some more. Finally he sensed his pursuer come in range for a full second and then pull away. “Oh, I don’t believe you,” he muttered. He got out of the car and headed for the dam. He kept closer to the water’s edge, intent on limiting the other’s avenue of approach. Just as he stepped onto the cement a body came hurtling out of the bushes beside him to barrel him over. Largely expecting it, he let himself go down and flipped his attacker away. Whirling to his feet, the Katana out and ready for another charge, it was a relief to see the man at last. He was a bit taller than MacLeod, with broad shoulders and silver-gray hair. His light eyes danced merrily in his clean-cut face. “Oh you think this is funny?” MacLeod tried to sound belligerent, but the man’s amusement was infectious. After Tran and Mariah it was a balm to face someone who did not trigger an instant moral dilemma. 

“Absolutely, boy-o.” 

MacLeod raised his eyebrows at the playful mockery. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” 

“Grey. Grey, Grey, Grey,” the man sing-songed back at him. His teeth flashed as he spoke and the persistent curl of his lips showed he barely contained his laughter. 

“Hunh. You’ll no’ be laughing long.” MacLeod stalked forward. Grey skipped a few steps back and drew his sword. A fine, long blade much like a Scottish Claymore. It was clearly well cared for. “Nice sword, I’ll add it to my collection.” 

The dancing eyes went wide and sparkled with challenge. “Over-confident, boy-o!” 

“You’re a man of few words. I like that.” 

They circled each other, the mutual merry joy in their eyes not reducing one iota their determination to defeat each other. They clashed once, twice. The ring of their blades echoed around them as sparks flew. They got themselves clinched together, swords locked at their bases as each strove to push the other back. MacLeod realized quickly that in brute force Grey was the stronger. He pretended to weaken and then abruptly pulled away. Grey stumbled forward but recovered quickly. He sought to clinch them again. MacLeod shook his head and danced out of range. With a challenging smile he dared Grey to close the gap between them. Grey considered it, coming a little closer on his toes. 

Mac bunched himself, leaning away as if to jump back. No, Grey would not be fooled that easily. He braced himself just at the moment MacLeod changed direction and slammed into him. This time the Highlander deliberately clinched their swords together and toppled them by hooking his leg between Grey’s and throwing all his weight to one side. They landed hard. This time it was Grey who flipped MacLeod away, but he lost his grip on his sword in doing it. He scrambled after the blade, ducking the flashing Katana. MacLeod let him get his sword and they faced each other. Grey no longer wore such a cheerful expression. He was pale and sweating. 

MacLeod too was sweating. He managed to grin, though. “I believe you called me over-confident?” 

For an instant Grey startled, then the color came back into his face and he grinned back. “That was me, yes.” 

Steady again they paced each other toward the center of the dam. This time when they fought Grey was far more deliberate. He nearly levered the Katana out of MacLeod’s hands twice, then changed tactics. Abruptly giving way before the Katana he was able to grab hold of the Highlander’s left shoulder and spin him. MacLeod hit the barrier behind him with an oath and before he could catch his balance Grey whirled and kicked him hard in the chest. He went over the barrier and plunged into the cold water of the lake beyond. Frantically he shoved himself away from the wall. Coughing and spluttering, he glared at Grey, who was laughing fit to burst. He struck for shore. At the least he would get to where he could stand up. 

Grey arrived at the beach, still chuckling. “You look like a drowned rat, Duncan MacLeod.” 

“I’ll show you drowned,” he growled back. 

Trampling the few grasses that grew on the rocky beach, they came at each other again. Before long, both men’s shirts were slick with blood from hits to shoulders and arms. Neither had attempted a seriously debilitating strike. A few cuts, bone-bruising slaps with the flats of their blades. More embarrassing than anything else. A new problem was presenting itself. Night fell, and they had to move back onto the dam to fight under its yellow lights. The sparks flew each time they clashed swords. Each was aware of the sheer ache as they passed beyond exhaustion. Conversely, the strikes they managed to get through each other’s guards were more serious. 

MacLeod sagged to his knees for a blessed moment’s rest as Grey’s sword swung through the space his head had been an instant before. He dropped his sword long enough to pull Grey’s legs out from under him. As Grey hit the ground MacLeod fell forward, pinning the other man’s sword arm over his head and bringing the Katana to his throat. 

It took a long breath in his blazing exhaustion to realize that Grey was not moving, except for the rise and fall of his chest as MacLeod lay over him. Mac raised himself a little, feeling the muscles in his arm protest the weight. Grey stopped breathing. MacLeod looked at his face. His eyes were closed, lips barely parted. There was a slight tremor in the line of the jaw but on the whole he looked... resigned? No, relieved. MacLeod remembered all too well that instant before Tran offered him surrender as an option. That moment when he would have welcomed death as an end to the uncertainty. Exhausting though it was, MacLeod had enjoyed this battle. No way would he take this head out of hand. 

“I’m not Dr. Kervorkian, Grey.” Grey’s startled laugh was broken by a brief gasp of pain as the Katana bit into his throat. MacLeod quickly pulled it away an inch. “Surrender, please?” 

“Absolutely, yes, sure. Gods that was an awful joke.” Despite the flow of words, Grey did not open his eyes but raised his hand to brush at the healing wound. Finally he did open them, laughter returning to the strained face. 

MacLeod gave him a hand up. “Come have a drink with me?” 

“I really shouldn’t,” Grey began, shaking his head. 

“I know this great bar in town. Things’ll be winding down by the time we get there. The owner plays a mean Blues-riff.” As Grey still appeared reluctant, MacLeod added, “It’s called Joe’s.” 

An utterly strange expression flitted across Grey’s face. It was gone before MacLeod could swear he saw it. “Yes. I like the Blues.” Despite his words, he still seemed in a conflict of conscience. He frowned suddenly and plucked at his ragged, blood-stained shirt. “Can’t go there like this.” 

“We’ll stop at my dojo on the way in and shower,” MacLeod offered. 

Grey looked directly at him for the first time since MacLeod issued his invitation. The gray eyes bore intently into his as if searching for something. Then as abruptly he relaxed. He shook his head slightly, a somewhat rueful smile crossing his face. MacLeod was left with the distinct feeling that he had completely missed something as Grey announced, “I am delighted to accept your invitation.” 

“Great! Let’s go!” 

* * *

They arrived about ten minutes before closing, parking their cars on the street. MacLeod felt a single resonance from Joe’s as they approached the door. As Grey paused beside him he said quickly, “It’s all right. Chances are it’s a friend of mine.” 

Things were indeed quiet. There were only about six customers still there. Methos and Joe were at the bar, watching the entrance alertly. They greeted MacLeod with expressions of intense relief. Sometimes it was annoying that they should know who he fought, probably before he did. Then as Grey came through the doors behind him, Methos’ face lit up. 

Disoriented by the change, MacLeod almost missed Grey’s soft murmur. “Adam.” 

“You know each other?” he exclaimed. 

Grey, focused on Methos, did not notice the question at first. Then he replied, “We met briefly, a week ago.” He continued with a tremor of nervousness. “I want... Gods, I want to talk to him.” 

Methos spoke to Joe, who nodded and ducked behind the bar. He came up with three labelless bottles that looked positively ancient. They waved the other two over. Methos set one bottle in front of MacLeod and offered the other one to Grey. The silver-haired man wrapped a hand around Methos’ for an instant before grasping the bottom of the bottle with his other and letting go with the first. 

The meaning of the look Grey gave him earlier when he invited him to use the showers at the Dojo suddenly became clear. MacLeod popped the cork from his bottle and took a long, healthy swig. It distracted him entirely. He closed his eyes on the rich, thick taste. The warmth it sent rolling through him was almost sensual. For this, he thought, he could forgive a great deal. He opened his eyes to gaze reverently at the bottle. “Where did you get this?” he asked Methos. 

“There are all sorts of interesting things under the streets of Paris, MacLeod.” 

Yeah. And would you have offered me some if he wasn’t here? He clamped down on an irrational flare of jealousy. It was instantly superseded by his worries. “Grey wants to talk to you, I want to talk to Dawson. You guys get lost.” He made little go away motions until they stood up and went to a booth well away from the other customers. With superhuman effort MacLeod kept himself from turning to watch them. The jealousy remained but it was easy to ignore, he convinced himself. The quiet laughter in Joe’s eyes did not help. 

MacLeod asked him seriously in a whisper, “Does Adam know that Grey is gay?” 

“Yes, he does,” Joe whispered back. Impossible as it might seem he looked more amused. 

MacLeod flushed slightly. “Yeah, well Grey is extremely dangerous. If he finds out who Adam really is...” he trailed off. 

“Mac.” Joe hesitated a long moment, choosing his words with care. “Compared to you, he lives the life of a monk. He only pursued Alexa because she expressed an interest in him. He doesn’t know how to approach someone who doesn’t approach him first.” 

MacLeod squirmed under Joe’s accusing gaze. It brought to mind the time after Methos met Alexa, fretting in Duncan’s kitchen about making a fool of himself if he asked her out. “What if she doesn’t like me?” he had asked, all mournful eyes. 

“What if she does?” Duncan had returned, amused. He understood. Methos, absorbed in the Watcher’s chronicles, translating tomes about himself into modern English. Making sure they could not connect him with Adam Pierson. In a way as much the nerdy bookworm he appeared to be. 

“And I sought him out.” 

“Yes, you did.” Joe stared him in the eye until he looked away. “And now you’re punishing him.” 

“Joe, he didn’t tell me!” He clamped his lips shut and lowered his voice. “If I’d known, I would have been prepared. I could have answered Cassandra when everything she said was true!” 

“And what could he tell you? ‘Mac, three-thousand years ago I was everything you hate. I made the Kurgen and Slan look like pussycats’.” 

In spite of himself, MacLeod snickered. He took a deep breath. “I’ll try, Joe. I still like him, but - it’s the contradiction between that hapless young man act of his and his past - I can’t reconcile them. Even now I can’t grasp that he’s the same person.” 

“He is, and he isn’t.” Glancing up at the clock, Joe missed MacLeod’s bewildered expression. “Last call! Closing time.” 

* * *

They sat across from each other in nervous silence. Grey finally spoke first. “So, you used to live in Paris?” 

“I live there now. I just come here to visit them.” He nodded toward the other two. “How’s about you?” 

“We live in the Ukraine. We breed horses there. What do you do?” 

Adam was given pause. He should have asked their Watcher where they were living. Of course they moved out of that war-torn region. The Ukraine was a very convenient place to hide in, he knew that. He had, after all, hidden Silas there for two-thousand years. He blinked as the pause became uncomfortably long. “Oh. I work for an extremely private historical research society. Doing research.” They grinned at each other, recognizing the humor in his work. “Actually it’s interesting how many of us I recognize in the records.” 

“Do they suspect anything?” 

“Not a thing.” Technically true. The Watchers either knew who was Immortal, or did not have a clue. Adam felt a pain in his heart. There were so many things he simply could not speak of with Grey. Suddenly the other man raised his hand toward Adam’s face. As suddenly he stopped, then let his hand drift forward slowly. By the time the warm fingers settled tenderly on his cheekbone, Adam wanted to feel them. 

Grey’s life had brought him many experiences, being what he was, living through several societies and their mores. He had to be very sensitive. So when he saw for only a brief instant, a deadness in Adam’s eyes as he reached toward him, he stopped. The deadness was gone so quickly he suspected Adam did not notice it himself. Someone somewhere had hurt him badly. Now touching him, the skin smooth beneath Grey’s fingers, he carefully kept the touch light until Adam leaned slightly into it. Keep him hungry, draw him out past a fear he probably doesn’t even know he feels. “I won’t hurt you,” Grey murmured. The tremor was all but unnoticeable. Adam closed his eyes and turned his face to lightly brush Grey’s wrist with his lips. Gods, who could think of hurting him? Grey wondered. Then he scolded himself, for the question showed how well he had adapted to the modern world. 

“Last call! Closing time.” Joe’s voice startled them. Neither had noticed the time passing. Adam’s eyes opened and he turned his head to look at Joe. The bartender’s roving eyes passed over them but Adam knew quite well he had seen everything. 

“I suppose I’ll see you out,” he said. 

Grey’s fingers gracefully stroked the neck of his wine-bottle as he met Adam’s eyes almost coyly. He raised an eyebrow, filled as ever with silent laughter. “Let’s be the last to leave. Have you always been a researcher?” 

Ah, the ‘how old are you anyway’ question. “Oh, no. I’ve been a bank robber, a doctor, a monk, a lawyer.” He shrugged, smiling demurely. “Jack of all trades. Have you always bred horses?” 

“Actually, for the greater portion of my life I have. I’ve been a soldier, a blacksmith, an architect. I’ve even been a god.” 

“A god?” 

“I was very young.” 

Adam clasped his hands together and gazed with mock-worship at Grey, who batted his hands aside, chuckling. Adam smiled slightly. “I’m staying at Joe’s place while I’m in town.” 

“Not with MacLeod?” As Adam shook his head Grey took in the underlying sadness in his eyes. They’ve had a falling out, he realized. He remembered the subtle change in MacLeod’s attitude when they came inside and saw Adam. There was something odd going on between the two. Fortunately for him it had nothing to do with what was going on between him and Adam. It could not unless MacLeod made a very personal change. Actually Grey had seen men make that change, but it was rare. Off on a tangent he suddenly wondered, if Adam were a woman, would he himself be willing to try to change? Well, no. The nature of their interactions would not have a component of desire, that was all. He muffled his urge to ask Adam to come with him tonight. I shouldn’t even be here. They never interacted with their subject until after each had tested themselves and him. Adam was not MacLeod but he was closely associated. Looking up he noticed that only Joe still remained in the bar, wiping down tables and studiously ignoring them. “I’d better go now,” he sighed. 

“Let me show you out.” 

He showed him all the way to the sidewalk. It was cold out, but not too windy. Grey again reached out very slowly, both hands this time to warm Adam’s cold cheeks. He gazed, fascinated, into the brown eyes. He frowned when he saw anxiety appear in them. “What is wrong?” 

“How much longer will you be in Seacouver?” 

Not a surprising question. Grey shrugged slightly. “Probably another week. Why?” Adam hesitated before answering, and Grey took advantage of the pause to slide his fingers behind the man’s ears and feel the soft hair. Adam’s eyes half-closed and he melted into the caress. Without really planning to, Grey stepped closer. He shifted his grip to brush his thumbs along Adam’s lower lip and felt him tremble. 

Adam reached up and gripped Grey’s wrists firmly, trying to focus on the question he needed to ask. “Your friend Tran Nguyen fought MacLeod-” 

“No,” Grey said quickly. Damn, too late. He saw faint alarm in Adam’s eyes and hastened to explain. “When we’ve located our opponent, we agree to meet after we’ve fought him and we separate until then.” 

Adam nodded his understanding. “How many of you are there?” 

Grey straightened up, surprised. He reviewed their conversation but could find nothing in it that hinted there were more than just he and Tran. Which meant that Mariah or Dige had attacked and somehow either MacLeod, or Adam himself had connected them together. He wanted to ask but did not dare. He was already in an awkward position because he came here with MacLeod. He cursed himself quietly for yielding to temptation. Oh, but what a temptation! Before it was something of an impulse, to shake up a strange, attractive young Immortal. Yet the extraordinary depth of those brown eyes stayed with him. And now it was worse, for he knew Adam was bright, sensitive and mysterious. “Do not tell Duncan MacLeod.” 

“I will not.” 

About to answer, Grey’s capricious nature got the better of him. He leaned down, paying close attention to Adam’s pulse under his fingers. Positioning his face so that their lips barely touched, he answered. “There are four of us altogether.” By the time he finished speaking the tantalizing brush of his lips had opened Adam’s and he kissed him, feeling his pulse race. He kept it gentle yet hinted at pressure and felt Adam beginning to come unglued. 

Or perhaps he was mistaken, for Adam spoke almost steadily. “What will happen if one of you dies?” 

Grey smiled against Adam’s lips. “We agreed long ago we will not seek vengeance. It is the Game and a risk we choose to take.” He kissed Adam again, feeling the grip on his wrists fall away as he slowly deepened his touch. Letting go with his right hand he stroked across Adam’s chest, following the contours of his muscles through the over-sized sweater. Moving his hand up this time he deliberately stroked over the other man’s nipples and felt him open his mouth wider to the kiss, shuddering. He realized he was going to have to either stop or take Adam to his hotel, and that might be a bad idea since they still barely knew each other. He drew back, staring into eyes gone dark as the night above them. “I will come see you before we leave-” he began and saw the dark eyes suddenly blaze. 

Adam moved, catching Grey’s head between his hands. He pushed his chin up and began kissing under his jawline. He alternated each kiss with a sharp bite and a stroking with his tongue. Grey held his breath as Adam moved lower on his neck. The strange, delicious beer, the sensuality of coaxing Adam’s responses, had aroused him as well and now he fought to control his rising passion. He reached up to push the other man back but his wrist was caught and forced down. Then Adam brought his left arm around behind Grey’s back and used it to pin that wrist against Grey’s ribs. This left his right side tight against Adam’s chest, but his left open and vulnerable to a roaming right hand and an exploring mouth. The first rush of angry passion over, Adam’s touch refined and that made it even more difficult for Grey to resist. 

Adam undid some of the buttons on Grey’s shirt and slid his hand inside along the warm flesh, the well-defined muscles. He pressed on the muscles, feeling them brace and Grey push forward into his hand. Sliding upward through curly chest hairs his hand migrated to the nipple, feeling already tight flesh become tighter under his fingers. Grey was gasping for breath but still holding under the assault. 

No you don’t. I will have you. He pulled Grey’s arm behind his back, allowing himself to step away and access the right side of his body. He wetted his tongue and went for the other nipple through Grey’s shirt. Grey made a sound halfway between a moan and a cry. His knees buckled and Adam sank to the cement with him, quickly putting his knee between Grey’s. Now he released Grey’s arm and used both hands to torment his nipples. Lifting his head he kissed Grey quick and hard. Grey gasped again, his whole body shaking. Adam made his assault on the nipples gentler, sweetly rubbing across them, his lips closed against Grey’s trembling ones. Then abruptly he tweaked the left nipple and dropped his hand to rub in one long caress against Grey’s erection. 

This time Grey did cry out. He pulled Adam tight against him and devoured his mouth, no longer aware of their surroundings. Adam met him with a hunger just as great. 

But Adam was Methos, and a strong survival instinct kept him from losing track of where they were. Having broken Grey’s control he would have liked nothing better than to release his own, but not on the sidewalk in front of Joe’s. Regretfully, he eased his touch and eased his response to Grey, bringing the other man back to mindful awareness with him. He held Grey at the waist and shoulders, whispering soft nonsense against his neck as his trembling eased. 

Grey pressed his forehead into Adam’s shoulder while his breathing slowed down to acceptable speeds. Finally he could pull back and meet his eyes. There was, he noticed wryly, a hint of amusement there. “Is this revenge for frightening you that time?” 

Adam laughed low in his throat. “Oh no. I wanted to see if I could change your mind.” 

“You could.” He let himself touch the soft hair again. “Please don’t.” Adam looked gravely back at him, with an unhappy twist to his mouth. Grey leaned forward and kissed him gently. Drawing back he said, “I WILL see you again.” As difficult as it was, he backed away and they both got to their feet. Afraid suddenly to stay so close to the devastating young Immortal, Grey did not stop to button up his shirt but spun on his heel and ran toward his car, grinning. 

Methos chuckled low in his throat, watching the way Grey’s long legs ate up the ground. “Promises, promises.” He turned and went back inside Joe’s. 

* * *

Joe looked up as Methos came in. “Don’t you look like the cat who ate the cream.” 

Impossibly, Methos’ grin broadened. “Well, not tonight.” 

“I’m glad of that, you’re my ride home.” He leaned forward to wag an accusatory finger, then stopped in surprise as his door opened again. 

Melinda Krager entered, closed the door quickly behind her and leaned back against it, staring hard at them both. Her skin was flushed and she was breathing a little too fast. 

Joe almost lost his balance standing up. “What’s wrong?!” 

She looked startled, then her flush deepened. “Nothing’s wrong, Joe.” She waved her hand at Adam, though. “How many times has he seduced Immortals?” 

Joe choked back a laugh, and turned the question over to its subject. Adam blinked back and forth at them for a moment. “Er, first time this lifetime.” 

“All I can say is it’s a good thing there aren’t any cops by here this time of night.” 

Joe’s interest was enhanced all the more. “Just what happened out there?” 

Melinda started to explain when Adam waved his hands at them. “I really don’t need to hear a re-hash of my sordid behavior. Watcher Krager, do you have a car?” She nodded. “All right then. Joe, if you want to hear this, she’s your ride home.” 

“Fair enough,” they both answered. 

Adam stopped on his way out the door and eyed Melinda’s flushed cheeks, his expression bordering on affectionate. “Perhaps I shouldn’t leave you two alone tonight?” 

Melinda went utterly scarlet. Joe, however, shook his head and threw a roll of toilet paper at Adam. “Out, boy. THIS story I must hear.”


	5. The Scuddy Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Four are reduced to three, and must cope with their loss. Grey goes off with Methos and tells about a devastating challenge with the Kurgan.

_I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain_  
_To see for certain what I thought I knew_  
_Far far away, someone was weeping_  
_But the world was sleeping_  
_Any dream will do_  


_“Any Dream Will Do”_  
_Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_  
_*all songs here save one from same source._  


* * *

  
**Part 7: The Scuddy Sky**  


* * *

Methos was still chuckling as he walked away from Joe’s. He shook his head. There she was, a pretty girl who obviously had a crush on Joe, and he would never notice because she was under thirty-five. At this rate, there would never be any Joe Jr. or Jolene for Methos to spoil, teach and tell secrets to about his or her father. 

He was almost to his car when his senses rolled with a presence. Still high-strung from the evening’s activities and knowing what happened last time he assumed an approaching Immortal was a friend, he had his sword out and his back braced against the car in quick order. He pulled himself to his full height and radiated deadly warning. The change would have stunned both MacLeod and Grey. The other man stepped out of the darkness between buildings, equally tense. Methos narrowed his eyes to obscure his recognition of the man. “Who are you?” he demanded. 

Krager’s description had not done him justice. No description could. He was one of those people you did not take a second look at simply because you never finished your first. Methos, though, was old and there was no one whose looks could distract him from his own survival. Especially not when he was in this mood. 

The man was clearly upset and eyed Methos intently through fine black eyelashes. Rather than identify himself he said, “That was my teacher you brought to his knees.” 

Methos relaxed slightly. Lowering his sword just a bit he replied, “Really? He didn’t mention a student.” 

It was years since he had seen someone look both disgruntled and relieved at the same time. “Good.” 

Since this clearly was not leading to a challenge, Methos took stock of the man. They were about the same height, he was just a bit shorter than Methos. He wore a stone-washed jacket, jeans and a dark shirt. A fine, silver necklace graced his neck. His black wavy hair was perhaps three inches long. His eyes seemed haunted, lost somehow. With a nod in the direction Grey went, Methos decided to ask the obvious question. “Am I treading on your heart?” 

The other took a step back, his eyes going wide. “No!” An array of emotions - indignation, embarrassment, guilt and determination - passed over his face. He drew himself taller and frowned at Methos. “I can’t give him what he needs.” 

Methos leaned back against the car, letting the light play on his sword. “You feel guilty about that.” 

The man backed up quickly until he was out of the light and asked, “What is your name?” 

Methos shook his head. He moved lightly away from the car toward the other man. “I know the signs. He’s your teacher. He saved your life and taught you what you were. He taught you to live. And then he invited you to his bed, didn’t he?” Meandering closer, he added innocently, “You fled into a woman’s arms.” 

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of a sword being drawn. Stepping into the light, blade down but nostrils flaring, the man glared at Methos. “You think you’re very smart, don’t you? It isn’t that simple!” 

Methos tilted his head, loosening up his shoulders. “Hmm. You refuse to be his lover. You don’t want me to be. You condemn him to be Immortal alone?” 

He bared his teeth. “I just don’t want you to hurt him!” 

“Life is pain.” Methos sheathed his sword, wondering if he could drive the poor fellow to foam at the mouth. Probably, but why be cruel? “It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone as spirited as your Grey.” He pushed his hands deep into his pockets and gazed thoughtfully at the man, who was clearly disconcerted by Methos’ behavior. Suddenly he shook his head and allowed his pity to show. He said gently, “You did not betray him by not wanting him.” 

The man backpedaled again into the shadows, his breathing fast and constricted. He asked shakily, “Who ARE you?” 

“Just a guy.” 

A soft whistling hiss came from him. Next came the sound of him sheathing his sword and retreating. His voice floated out of the darkness. “Don’t hurt him.” Then came the subtle shift that marked him leaving the range of Methos’ senses. 

The old Immortal raised his eyebrows and turned back to his car. I’ve really got to get out of here. That boy’s an accident waiting to happen. God he hated idioms, even when HE used them. 

* * *

  
_I wore my coat, with golden lining_  
_Bright colors shining, wonderful and new_  
_And in the east, the dawn was breaking_  
_And the world was waking_  
_Any dream will do_  


* * *

Grey drove around the corner, intent on getting back to his hotel as quickly as possible. Raging hormones aside he wanted to put as much distance between himself and MacLeod’s haunts as possible. He drove into an Immortal signature with an all-too-familiar edge. Uh oh. There was Tran, leaning against a lamppost. Grey pulled over, reaching out to open the door. “Hey, pretty boy, want a ride?” 

Tran laughed as he got in the car. Relief tore through Grey. He valued Tran’s good opinion of him. It occurred to him that he was not the only one still too close to MacLeod. “What brings you around?” 

“I followed that woman here.” 

Woman? Tran following a woman was out of character and Grey was completely thrown. He looked intently at Tran, but though his teacher was raising an eyebrow at him, there was no hint of mischief there. “What woman?” 

Tran buckled his seatbelt and gazed thoughtfully at Grey. “Saturday there was a woman in the bar with Pierson.” 

He remembered, she was of average looks sitting at the same table. “Have you been following her since Saturday?” 

“No. I’ve been following her since I caught her following Mariah.” 

Grey drove for a minute in silence, digesting the importance of that statement. Finally he said seriously, “Tell me everything.” Tran began with his conversation with Adam. So that’s how he knew there were more of us, thought Grey. 

Tran would have left when Pierson did, except Mariah was still in the building. As her teacher, he was sensitive to her emotional field and knew the challenge was over. When after a while no new panic or anger radiated toward him, he began to feel secure. That was when he saw the woman. She seemed perfectly natural, standing there with a camera, studying the angles of the building. Sometimes she looked through the viewfinder and once in a while took a photo. He dismissed her from his thoughts. Mariah came out and walked away. Then the woman walked nonchalantly the same direction. It could be innocent, but he was not willing to take a chance. He sped to Mariah’s hotel and waited from an inconspicuous hiding place. Mariah arrived shortly and went inside. Tran waited some more. Just when he was about to relax and give up, the woman with the camera came along the sidewalk. 

“Ah.” Grey was not sure what to say. “So, what happened after that?” 

“Oh, I just followed her as she followed you.” Grey was so startled he hit the brakes and the car squealed to a stop; He stared at Tran, who smiled slightly. “It was pretty funny when you dumped MacLeod in the lake.” 

“Ah,” Grey said again. “So why aren’t you following her still?” 

“She’ll follow Dige next, unless I’m mistaken.” Tran frowned intently. “I don’t like this. I know Methos is somewhere around here. Pierson is following MacLeod and this woman is following us. Who are they working for?” 

Grey put the car back in gear. “We could do a probability square.” 

“Ooh, I love it when you talk technical. We must collect Mariah, then. She does them best.” 

“What about Dige?” Grey asked. “He won’t like being left out.” 

“We shouldn’t interfere with his challenge. Besides, the woman will be following him.” 

They woke Mariah out of a very sound sleep. After four cups of coffee she was awake enough to listen to a concise explanation. What they told her woke her the rest of the way. She set up the square. When it finally formed a cohesive picture, Mariah frowned at it. “There are some gaps, of course. The hub is that bar. It is a link between Pierson, the woman and MacLeod. MacLeod is the innocent party, linked to Methos but not to the fact that we’re being followed. Methos...” she turned a steady look on Tran, “is not part of this, or we simply have not seen any connections. The references to him are incidental.” He nodded reluctantly. “There is no overlying menace except on our side.” 

Grey leaned down, puzzled. “What makes you say that?” 

She indicated the square. “Someone is gathering information, almost passively. Because we don’t know WHY they’re doing it, we are nervous. That makes us dangerous.” 

“But you believe they are not a menace?” Tran asked. 

“My belief has nothing to do with it. We only put FACTS in the square,” she chided him. “And the fact is, we don’t know why she’s following us.” 

Tran paced back and forth across the room. He stopped when he realized they were both grinning. “No respect,” he complained, glaring at them. He sat down the other side of the square. “I think we should follow Dige, just to be on the safe side.” 

“Now?” Grey asked mournfully. 

Tran chuckled and shook his head. “The morning should be soon enough. Dige won’t attack when he’s tired.” 

“Fine, fine. Just take over my suite, why don’t you?” Mariah tried to sound petulant, but failed to hide her smile. Now if she could only get back to sleep after all that coffee.... 

* * *

  
_A crash of drums, a flash of light_  
_My golden coat flew out of sight_  
_The colors faded into darkness_  
_I was left alone_  


* * *

**Saturday morning, the Dojo**

Duncan MacLeod finished his katas. Content for the moment, he sat down and stretched his toes. As he rubbed his legs, he realized he wanted to spar with someone. Richie or Methos would be nice. However, Richie was still out of town, and Methos seemed to be avoiding him. The lack of interaction or mental stimulation was beginning to grate on his nerves. Joe, too, was busy the last few days, updating Watcher records, he suspected. Though yesterday they talked about the challenge from Grey. With an annoyed shrug, Duncan stood up. Dwelling on his isolation had dispelled his contentment. Soon Methos would return to Paris and he would not even have him to talk with. On the other hand, Amanda was there. Now that was an excuse to go. He thought suddenly that Joe had never just enjoyed Paris, that he knew of. He smiled as an idea occurred to him. 

His nerves sprang taut at the sense of another Immortal. Moving to the wall where he kept his spare swords, he watched the doors alertly. No one came in. Again. Whoever it was. He felt them on and off yesterday, too. They approached the bar while he was talking to Joe. Later they came close to the Dojo. Unlike Grey, whose stalking revealed his sense of humor even before they fought, this one felt serious. Perhaps they believed the Dojo an inappropriate place for a challenge, and were leaving it to him to choose. If he ignored them, would they grow bored and leave, never having identified themselves? Would they finally come up and challenge directly, as Tran and Mariah had? Fourth challenge this week. Maybe it’s the weather. 

He debated ignoring it, then finally decided he could not. “All right, trouble-maker,” he muttered aloud. “Follow me and we’ll settle this.” He changed clothes, gathered his black coat and Katana and left the dojo. At the wheel of his Convertible, he paused for a moment before starting the car. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his center. Then he thought as forcefully as he could, Come. He did not know if it would work, but it was worth a try. 

The most logical place he could think of to go was to his warehouse. There they could fight, and if it led to a Quickening, the building would contain its effects so as not to attract attention. Duncan waited inside, wondering if the other had followed him. He did not have to wait long. The presence slid along his senses, sharpening his own awareness and causing an adrenaline rush. He held himself motionless watching for his follower. The other Immortal stepped through the entrance. 

Just a bit shorter than Duncan, his features either Japanese or Korean, not quite of the right set to be Chinese. A good-looking man, Duncan noticed in passing. With a really nice Mongolian Broadsword. Hmm. Well, there were formalities to go through. “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he intoned darkly. 

The other man stood motionless for a moment, head cocked as if there were some puzzle inherent in what he heard. Then he met Duncan’s gaze with a hostile one of his own. “I am Dige.” 

Duncan did not bother to ask his usual question. He swept his Katana up and saluted in the Japanese style. Dige returned the salute but the fire in his eyes grew brighter. They stood motionless, swords at ready. For the longest time they just watched each other. Finally, they both moved, leaping forward to strike. Dige was fast, and perhaps Duncan’s equal in strength. The first clash did neither man harm. They circled warily, eyes bright and searching, gauging the pattern in each other’s movements. In the part of his mind that judged and strategized, Duncan noticed that Dige burned with contained fury, there was a quiet hint of distress in his movements. Duncan shelved an instinctive empathy as Dige came at him. 

This time the attack was more violent. The broadsword bit deep into Duncan’s left shoulder, while he used his Katana to drive into Dige’s side, under his ribs. Dige slammed Duncan in the chin, forcing him back. As the wounds closed, they glared at each other. Dige’s expression was one of soul-sick loathing. He launched himself again, this time sliding around Duncan’s defensive strike. Duncan knew better than to rely merely on his sword. He struck with his elbow at Dige’s face. Dige too did not rely just on his sword. He dropped it and caught the elbow, shoving up and back, dislocating Duncan’s shoulder. Diving under the Katana, Dige retrieved his sword and tried to slash into Duncan’s back, but the Highlander threw himself out of the way. He used the force of his roll to slam his shoulder back into place, allowing it to heal quickly. 

The battle took them over a pile of gravel, into the mud beyond. Slipping and sliding through it, the two managed very few solid strikes against each other. Covered in mud, they finally moved onto more solid ground. Here Duncan had ropes hanging from the ceiling, sometimes straight down, sometimes in loops. Though confused by the ropes, Dige managed to hold steady and keep his sword from getting caught. Duncan finally bowled him over. As he swung the Katana down, Dige caught his right wrist. Moving quickly Duncan pinned Dige’s right wrist. This was an untenable position, neither man could use his sword. Dige struggled futily for a second before he managed to twist his right leg and slam his foot into Duncan’s gut. The Highlander ignored the pain and pinned Dige’s legs with his own. 

He glared into the blazing eyes. “Stop this, now! You can walk away!” 

Dige hissed, anguish visible beneath the anger. “Never. I want to end this!” 

“What is it you want to end!?” Duncan demanded, wet mud dripping from his hair. 

Dige spat curses in an unknown language. He’s not Japanese, then, thought Duncan. Dige suddenly release his sword and Duncan’s wrist, wrenching his arm free and slamming both fists into Duncan’s temples. In the confusion that ensued, both men managed to end up back on their feet, with their swords. Dige launched a vicious attack, driving the Highlander back. They came onto solid cement, the air clear around them. 

Their swords sparked with each strike. Duncan came off the defensive and tried to drive Dige back. The other would not permit it. They were once again at an impasse. Swords clinched, they rocked back and forth snarling at each other, rationality abandoned at the roadside in a growing blood-madness. Duncan suddenly twisted his blade, throwing Dige off balance as his arm twisted, too. Unable to free his right arm, Dige tried to rabbit-punch the Highlander. Duncan slammed his forehead against Dige’s, stunning him. There was an ugly cracking sound from Dige’s wrist, then his sword tore from numb fingers. Duncan swung the Katana around and this time was able to complete the arch. Dige’s head fell to the floor, his body more slowly crumpled. 

Dige, I will remember you, Duncan thought. He sank to his knees beside the body, closed his eyes and opened his heart to the Quickening. 

The mist rose from Dige’s body and engulfed Duncan. Electrical bolts veered through the air to him, setting some of the ropes afire, bursting a few of the windows. As Dige’s Quickening transferred to him, Duncan received an aching sense of deprivation, loss and disconnection. He drew air deep into his lungs, allowing the feeling to settle past his primary self. It clung to his own emotions, reminding him of the day he awoke from the wound that killed him, and his father drove him from their home shouting, “You’re no bairn of mine!” Rest now, Dige. Rest. As long as he did not resist it, the Quickening would settle down within a few hours and he would feel normal again. He embraced it, pulling the remnants of Dige’s personality deep inside, finding value in the determination of the man. We will rest together, you and I. 

* * *

  
_May I return to the beginning_  
_The light is dimming, and the dream is too_  
_The world and I, we are still waiting_  
_Still hesitating_  
_Any dream will do._  


* * *

The other three waited in the neighboring warehouse. Tran was edgy with the rage and determination he could sense boiling from Dige. Though he had hovered near Mariah’s battle, he usually avoided the situation. Not for the first time he wished he was like the others, and only reacted subconsciously to the flow of energy and emotions around them. Just as he thought that, there was a sudden sense of vacuum. Then the tumbling screech of a Quickening assaulted him. He closed his eyes for a moment and determined to ignore it, turning around. He met Mariah’s puzzled gaze as she tried to figure out what was making her uneasy. Then he looked beyond her and his eyes widened. Mariah followed his gaze and gasped as Grey turned ashen and doubled over. They caught him, easing him to the cement floor. As his body jerked, Tran swiftly shoved his wallet between Grey’s teeth. There was no way for them to hold him, but Tran caught his head and reached through his wildly weaving barriers. He grabbed the edges, held them until they began to stabilize. Stayed there until he was reasonably certain Grey would hold without him. He pulled out, feeling the wavering within but refusing to go back. He gently took his wallet away. 

“Gone. He’s gone,” Grey said brokenly. 

“I know.” 

Mariah held her fist across the knot in her chest. She closed off her tears and the agony of loss for later. Now, like Tran, she had to hold a steady front to help Grey calm down. It was hard, tears threatened to escape and she blinked rapidly to fight them. It was at that moment that another presence disturbed them. Grey was on his feet instantly. With a nearly inarticulate cry of “I’ll kill him!” he launched himself around the corner. There was the sound of bodies colliding, a brief ring of steel on steel and then suddenly, silence. 

They rushed around the corner to behold Grey on his knees, held there by another man who gripped his arms, spoke quietly and forced him to meet his eyes. “That’s Pierson,” Tran whispered to Mariah. 

There was no engagement of their Quickenings that Tran could detect. Pierson used only words, gentle yet firm. “You said you would not seek revenge. Remember.” Grey started to speak, but was stopped by the other man’s fingers across his lips. “It is the Game, there can be only one.” Grey’s hysterical rage crumpled in the face of this certainty. He folded over, clenching his body against the agony that radiated through him. Pierson wrapped his arms around Grey’s shoulders, kneading the taught muscles. He spoke again. “I think it’s what he wanted.” 

Grey jerked his head up, confused. “Why - what makes you say that?” 

“He was there Thursday, and confronted me after you left. He told me not to hurt you.” 

Mariah spoke wanly, “He’s been depressed the last forty years.” The men looked at her, startled. She came over and knelt beside Grey, gazing into his eyes. “Do you remember in 1952 when he and I went to Japan? He wanted to look for traces of his people. There was nothing. Not the types of homes they built, not in the language or the legends. His was one of those small groups that fell by the wayside, that left nothing to show their passing. Dige - was lost.” 

“I noticed too,” Tran added. 

Grey looked at each of them. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Is this my fault, then? Am I so blind to what even a stranger could see? I failed him.” 

Pierson cupped Grey’s chin in his hand, turning him to meet his eyes. “We cannot live their lives for them. Eventually they will decide what they want, regardless of what we want.” 

Grey raised his hands to touch Pierson’s hair. “Is that why you were so drained that first day? Did you just lose a student?” 

A pained expression crossed Pierson’s face. He hesitated for a long moment before answering the question. “No. I had to kill someone who was once a very good friend.” He shook his head out of Grey’s hands and again looked at him solemnly. “I’ve seen the look in Dige’s eyes before, enough times to know what it means. He went into that fight to win or die.” Uneasy with the direction the conversation was going, he bowed his head sympathetically. “If you will tell me where you’re staying, I will take you there.” 

“Stay with me?” Grey asked, almost tentative. If I cannot feel life... He gripped Adam’s shoulders, feeling the warmth of his body. 

“Wait!” snapped Tran. His anger startled the other three. They turned to look at him. He moved closer, wary of letting this stranger take Grey off when there were so many unanswered questions. He narrowed his eyes. “Why are you following MacLeod?” 

Pierson was surprised by the question, blinking. “He’s my friend. I worry about him.” 

Grey shook himself, a tiny bit of light returning to his eyes. “The woman.” 

“What?” Pierson asked him. 

Mariah broke in firmly. “Why is that woman following us?” 

Pierson went utterly still, his face blank. He stared over Grey’s shoulder at Tran. Finally he spoke, enunciating each word carefully and separately. “That is a rather complicated story.” 

“We have time,” Tran replied, his gaze cold. 

Pierson did not take his eyes from Tran’s. He spoke calmly. “She is Melinda Krager. She belongs to the same historical research society that I do. She is a superior researcher. However, she does believe Elvis was kidnapped by aliens and X-Files is a documentary.” Suddenly he blinked, life returning to his face as he glanced around at the other two. “Do you know?” 

“We have satellite television,” Mariah replied with a small white-lipped smile. “What is the point of this explanation?” 

His eyes were drawn to Tran’s again, as if he was afraid to look away for long. “The society has a set of journals, handed down from generation to generation. They are about you. Melinda works on them.” He blinked innocently into the startled silence. 

It stretched on, until Mariah broke it. “Whose journals?” she asked. 

“The writer was Achmed Al Khazar.” A strangled sound broke from Grey. Pierson realized it was a laugh, and he closed his fingers over Grey’s, holding him. “I recognized you, and invited her to the bar so I could ask about your history. Then Tran came in, and when you came, too...” he trailed off, shrugging slightly. 

Tran finally backed off. Pierson’s emotional field was completely bland and not even subconsciously reacting. All he could tell was that the words were essentially true. And he was too tired and grieved to lash out and find deeper truths. Not to mention how Grey would react, fresh from Dige’s loss. Seeing Tran’s face twist, Mariah got up and came over to him, cuddling him close while her own tears began to fall. She looked up once and nodded to them. Go now, her expression said. Grey hesitated. Finally he went over to them and held them both tightly. 

Tran reached up and snaked his hands through Grey’s hair, speaking in an old, lost language. “Mariah and I will be together. You need Adam Pierson right now. Regardless of all the half-truths he’s told us, he cares about you.” 

In spite of himself, Grey was drawn to smile slightly. “There is more to him than meets the eye.” He hugged them and withdrew. Turning wearily to Adam he said in English, “I’ll take that ride, now.” 

* * *

_“From too much love of living,_  
_From hope and fear set free,_  
_We thank with brief thanksgiving,_  
_whatever gods may be_  
_That no life lives forever;_  
_the dead rise up never;_  
_That even the weariest river_  
_Winds somewhere safe to the sea.”_  


  
By Algernon Charles Swinburne

  


* * *

A king-sized bed gave plenty of room even for two tall men to rest. With all the heavy curtains closed, it may as well have been night. They were dressed, only their footwear and coats off. They lay on their sides, facing each other. Methos could feel the defeated exhaustion in Grey. He did not like how Grey’s emotions slid toward self-recrimination. Words of reassurance were useless at a time like this. Instead, Methos asked softly, “How did you meet Dige?” 

Grey opened his eyes and met Adam’s kind gaze. Life seeped back into his face and he smiled a little. “Oh, that’s a long story.” 

Adam raised himself on his elbow. “I adore long stories.” 

“You won’t be disappointed then.” He shifted, pushing deeper into the mattress. “It really begins - oh,” he muttered equations in an old Greek dialect Adam pretended not to understand. “Ah, about 200 BC. Tran and I were traveling across Paekche...” 

* * *

**Paekche (Korean kingdom), 200 BC**

They were doing “barbaric foreigner with young native guide”, a favorite guise of theirs for traveling through Asian regions. Grey towered over everyone they met. Tran was so young looking and unassuming that people they talked to would reveal more in conversation than they might have if Tran was an adult. More so in their relief at not having to deal with the outland-giant. The people of the small village they stopped at traded provisions for some of Grey’s metal. Tran gossiped with the village youngsters. 

Enjoying the credulity of the strange boy, they told him about the mysterious demon-giant whose marauding was taking it towards the sea. Tran listened, goggle-eyed. “He has a man’s face, but his head is covered in scales and hair sharp enough to slice your fingers off! He’s as big as the mountains!” they related, waving their hands to emphasize. “His flesh is white, like a drowned-corpse! More than that foreign-devil you’re working for! He eats babies, tears ‘em from their mothers’ stomachs! His sword is a mile long, and he can’t be killed. Not if you stab him in the stomach, or even the heart!” 

“What if you cut off his head?” Tran asked, wide-eyed. 

They stopped for a moment. “Well no one’s ever tried THAT before.” The children debated among themselves briefly before deciding, “If you cut off his head, he’ll just pick it up and put it back on!” 

That night after they set up camp, Tran paced uneasily next to the fire. Grey watched him, deliberately turning his head to follow Tran until the older Immortal was distracted by the movement and stared at him. Grey asked, “What’s the matter?” 

“There’s an evil Immortal in the region. But I don’t have enough information to avoid him.” 

“Why should we avoid him?” 

Tran shook his head. He sat down next to Grey and studied him. At last he said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a long time.” He groped for words for a moment. “You need to go, seek other teachers.” 

Stunned, Grey stared at him. They had traveled together for centuries. They met, partied with and sometimes challenged others of their kind. Tran had been a constant for Grey through five hundred years of continuous change. In all that time they never encountered one Tran identified as evil. He realized suddenly Tran made sure of that, and he was afraid. “But I’ve learned so much from you,” he began through the lump in his throat. 

Tran interrupted him. “What you’ve learned is enough for a normal combat situation. You have yet to face someone who is intent to take your head at all costs. You’ve never fought a berserker. I know you don’t like change, but you must. You are ill-prepared with only me for a teacher.” 

Grey did not know quite how to respond. He had been through several challenges, and won most of them. Afterwards he drank with his opponent, except on the very rare occasions when he was forced to take their heads. Most Immortals would rather live. Tran’s training, the art of giving way before your opponent, of feigned uncertainty worked better for Tran than for him. He made his own version, letting most fighters assume that because he was big he was simple-minded. Few were ready when he showed his true skill. I am NOT a child to be protected! I’m over eight-hundred years old!! He would show Tran. He would find this evil Immortal and take his head. 

In the wee hours of the morning, Grey followed one of the few special techniques he was able to learn from Tran. The art of bringing your mind to utter stillness, and feeling the distant pull of Immortals all over the world. And if you were very quiet, your thoughts silenced too, you could get a sense of which direction the nearest were. Tran’s presence so near boomed at him. He patiently factored it in and soon could feel the pulse of another, lesser Immortal, somewhere to the south. He opened his eyes, smiling, and gathered some of his things to trek off across the wilderness. 

It only took three days to close on the other Immortal. Though Grey stopped a few times to get a directional sense again, the other did not move appreciably. Still he was not prepared for the sight which greeted him when he was close to that Immortal. A village of perhaps eight families put to the torch. Bodies littered the area, some burnt and others simply hacked to pieces. This wanton destruction was nothing like the conquering raids he and his people used to carry out, centuries before. His gorge rose as he searched for the presence which had in turn noticed him. The other came over a rise on horseback, looming like the giants of legend. He was huge. Grey suddenly felt very small and inadequate. This creature - for he could not think of it as human - emitted a mental signal that made his skin crawl. Murder, blood-hunger. An old and abiding hatred. 

The creature’s voice rolled toward him like thunder, assaulting his ears. It gloated and he could taste iron in the air. “I am Kurgan,” he sneered, every word reducing Grey. “Have you come for me?” 

Grey resisted the urge to turn and run. At this point it was too late, anyway. This Kurgan had a horse. He gathered together his flagging courage. Tran had taught him well and hard, he reminded himself. “Yes, I have! I am Grey!” Kurgan laughed and rode at him. Rational first, he knew he had to get this creature off the horse. “Your opponents will use whatever weapons they can, and a horse is a good weapon.” Grey fled onto one of the smoldering piles of debris that once was a hut. Kurgan sent his horse onto it and Grey ducked under the animal’s belly. It reared and he caught the rider’s booted right foot, hauling downward with all his might. As Kurgan lost his seat, he jabbed down with his sword. The horse screamed as its side was sliced open. Grey hissed as the sword went through his right shoulder. Kurgan was grounded, but uninjured and laughing. Spinning his huge sword over his head he came at Grey. His entire front was wide-open. Grey quickly swung upwards, intending to eviscerate him. Almost at the moment he connected he heard a metallic grating sound. He could not complete the arc. Under Kurgan’s furs was a shirt of metal pieces. As understanding hit him, so did Kurgan. 

The beast liked to play with his prey. Instead of taking Grey’s head he brought the pommel of his sword down onto Grey’s right shoulder. The bones were smashed. Pain such as Grey never felt except perhaps just before his first death radiated through him. Desperate, he held on and transferred his sword to his left hand, swinging at the creature’s legs. The legs, too, were protected by metal. Kurgan smashed Grey’s other shoulder and hamstrung his legs. Then he grabbed Grey’s hair and jerked his head back. He set down his sword and brought out a black dagger, holding it in front of Grey’s eyes. Then he slashed down, opening Grey’s shirt and the flesh beneath. Even as he did so, the healing which defined an Immortal was repairing Grey’s wounds. But Kurgan knew what he was doing. He wrenched Grey’s arms back, twisting them unnaturally. The healing process was slowed. 

Grey could not remember if he screamed before Kurgan began carving chunks of flesh out of his chest. But he did scream then, wondering in his pain-stricken thoughts if he would be lucky, and Kurgan would take his head before he went mad. He almost did not feel the impact of another Immortal. 

Kurgan let go and spun to his feet even as a small, whirling dervish came upon him. Tran stabbed and slashed with his daggers, getting through the links in the metal suit. But most of the hits were surface. Though drenched in blood Kurgan was not seriously injured. Not even slowed down. Tran tried to draw him away from Grey but Kurgan would not follow. He turned back, raising his sword for the final strike. With a desperate ululating scream Tran jumped onto Kurgan’s back and began hacking at his neck. Kurgan threw himself down, trying to smash Tran beneath him, but the small man leaped away. In one remarkable movement he came close in and put a dagger through the wrist of Kurgan’s sword-arm, twisting and wrenching. The sword fell from suddenly useless fingers. But Kurgan caught Tran in his other hand. Throwing him down with bone-breaking force, he stamped down on Tran’s stomach. Forgetting his other victim, Kurgan began systematically crushing Tran beneath his boots. 

Grey was still in terrible pain, but his arms and legs were finally working again. He staggered to his feet and picked up his sword in barely coordinated fingers. Still healing, he rushed at Kurgan. He did not have the reach to cut off his head at this angle. In desperation he swung his sword up between the other man’s legs into his groin. Though tremendously satisfying, it only slowed Kurgan down. That was all Grey needed. With a surge of adrenaline he scooped up Tran’s broken body in one arm and used the other to frantically lever them onto Kurgan’s injured horse. He urged the animal into a run without caring where, and kept it running until its heart burst and it died under him. 

He stumbled upon a small hut. There lived a little old couple. The woman took Tran from his arms with little soft noises and a continuous stream of chatter he could not understand. It was in her arms, wrapped in tattered blankets, that Tran finally woke. He smiled bewildered at her before he saw Grey hovering nearby. Relief crossed his face and he asked weakly, “Are you all right?” 

It was too much. Grey choked and began sobbing. The old lady and Tran both came to him, holding him until he could speak. “I almost killed you! This was my fault!” Grey’s voice spiraled up with rising hysteria. 

He felt it then, Tran’s presence abruptly rang clear in him, and he was reassured and calmed. “Not your fault. I should have sent you away centuries ago. But I was so alone before I met you.” Tran kissed his forehead. 

“You don’t have to send me away. I’m leaving. I won’t let you be hurt protecting me again.” He pressed his forehead against Tran’s, trying to convey feelings far too complex to put into words. He felt broken inside, worse than when Kurgan had him helpless. 

He left in the morning, and it would be about a century and a half before they saw each other again. 

* * *

_Close every door to me_  
_Hide all the world from me_  
_Bar all the windows_  
_And shut out the light_  
_Do what you want with me_  
_Hate me and laugh at me_  
_Darken my daytime_  
_And torture my night_  
_If my life were important I_  
_Would ask will I live or die_  
_But I know the answers lie_  
_Far from this world._


	6. Departures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specifically, Mr. Stephen Bettinger (not a member) created Maroofus and was involved in that part of the writing.
> 
> Grey tells how he found Dige, and rejoined Tran in Vietnam. He and Methos get intimate.

**Part 8: Departures**  


* * *

For the first fifty years he wandered almost aimlessly. Angry and bereft, he took the heads of six Immortals who could not fight him to a standstill. Luckily he did not run across another who had the strength to defeat him. His travels eventually took him to Rome. To Grey, the nation was insane. Freed slaves lived better than many freeborn citizens. Bloodsports reminded him too much of his battle with Kurgan. He would have abandoned the city as a place of misery and contradiction after the Third Punic War (around 123 BC), except that another Immortal befriended him. 

He called himself Tiberius Gracchus, a self-declared glutton for punishment. He claimed an age in excess of three hundred years, insisting his original name was Menander. Tiberius did not seem to have a serious bone in his body, but he had a personal vendetta going against the Roman Senate. He never explained why, though. 

He maneuvered himself into the office of tribune, the plebeian’s official representative. Rome only recruited its soldiers from landowners. So Tiberius tried to use his position to get land distributed to the poor. The Senate, afraid he would gain popular power, had him murdered. But he had a back-up plan ready. He became Gaius Gracchus, Tiberius’ mysterious younger brother. In 123 he was elected as tribune again, and promptly instituted sweeping reforms. He was re-elected once, but not again. Then when he and his followers protested a senate action, they were put to death. 

“Haven’t you had enough?” Grey asked him fifteen years later. 

He laughed, “They despise me for an upstart, I despise their worthlessness. They can taunt me with my social position, I them with their infamies.” 

It had only taken Menander that long to completely secure his new identity well-removed from the Gracchus brothers. Now he was Gaius Marius, a cantankerous member of the new knightly order. He was elected as consul in 107 and served six terms until 100. During that time he waived the property qualification for recruitment. He made the reward for twenty years of service pensions, land, and a share of the plunder. 

Grey left Rome, so it was only from later history that he learned about Marius’ wild career, which rose and fell and fell and rose, until he died in the 80’s. Grey always suspected that Gnaeus Pompeius, who joined forces with Marcus Crassus and Julius Caesar to get Caesar placed in a position of power, was Menander’s last identity. For Pompeius, or Pompey, had a wild up-and-down career, too. Which ended when he tried to use the Senate to rein in Caesar. Furious, Caesar pursued him into Egypt where he was murdered by Ptolemy XIII, who had his head delivered to Caesar. 

Still, it was Menander who taught Grey to smile again. It was from Menander Grey adopted a great deal of his lively personality. Feeling confident of his capacity to fight, he determined to find Tran again. He had so many things to tell him. He thought Tran would really enjoy hearing about Menander’s various identities in the same nation. “Well,” thought Grey to himself. “Tran will go back to his birthplace again in about forty years. If I plan to meet him, I guess it’s time to close up shop here and head east. Only THIS time I’m going by boat.” 

Though his aimless travels eventually brought him to Rome after separating from Tran, even meeting that peculiar young man who said he found enlightenment did not make the trip worthwhile. There he was, oddly regal in his bearing. He turned and looked at Grey with something, some knowing, in his eyes. 

* * *

“His insistence that I would gain enlightenment too, once I gave up my attachment to my head seemed too much like an Immortal’s trap. I thought he was a very strange man. Sitting under a tree talking to a dozen or so people. Very weird, even for Siam. I was sure I’d never hear about him again. But he and Tran were both right, I did need to grow and experience other things. 

Adam’s eyes were half-closed. He smiled slightly. “You met a Buddha.” 

Grey nodded, grinning back at him. 

* * *

  


  
  


Crossing the market place, lost in thought, Grey did not notice the pair of thugs stalking him. 

The unmistakable hiss of a sword swinging at his head brought Grey’s mind and body back together. Responding with blinding speed he bent forward, ducked the sword and mule-kicked straight back, catching his attacker in the solar plexus. The thug could barely stand with the wind knocked out of him. Grey hopped back, grabbed the sword out of his hand and with a three-quarter spin slapped the flat of the blade into the back of his neck. The crunch of his vertebrae told Grey this one was dead. Now for the other. 

Grey stepped toward him saying, “Are you ready to play?” The man looked at Grey, then past him. His eyes got really big, he dropped his sword and ran like a cat on fire. “Now why did you do that?” Grey wondered aloud. “I’m not THAT big and scary.” 

“No, but I am,” said someone behind him. 

Grey spun around and looked up, up into the face of the biggest Roman Centurion he had ever seen. “You certainly are,” he agreed. 

“You are Grey, the metal-smith?” asked the Centurion. 

“Yes I am,” Grey replied, frowning slightly. 

“I am Flavius Marcus. My cohort has been transferred to Gallalee. I understand you speak many languages.” 

“Yes,” Grey said casually, suddenly sure where this was going. 

“Good. Here is my offer.” He took a deep breath, standing at full attention looking down his nose at Grey. “You serve me as translator, metal-smith and fighting teacher for two years. You will not be a soldier. You will answer to me alone. You will be well housed, well fed and well paid for your services. What say you?” 

Grey paused, pretending to be thinking about it. Then he asked, “Does that include transportation to a place of my choice, anywhere in the empire after those two years?” 

“Done!” said Marcus. 

“And done!” replied Grey soberly, concealing his delight. The two men shook hands to seal the deal. 

“Meet me on the Icarus at the port of Salerno in one week. I go now to the Temple of the Magdalana to get some whores for my men. Do you want me to get you one?” 

“No, no that’s not necessary,” said Grey quickly. 

A little smile touched Marcus’ lips. “All right then, it’s the Temple of Dionysus for you,” he said cheerfully. “One in ten of my men feel as you do. See you in seven days. Don’t make me look for you.” 

As the Centurion marched away, Grey smiled and waved. He shook his head. “There goes a smart man.” This would be convenient. 

Thus it was. A week later Grey struggled to get his tools on board the Icarus when a little man walked up to him. “Hello, noble Sir. May I assist you in loading your supplies?” he asked cheerfully. 

Grey looked down at the small, stocky man. He was badly dressed and unkempt, perhaps thirty-five years old and only wearing one shoe. Wonderful, thought Grey. The Captain hired the village idiot as a cabin boy. “What is your name?” 

“I am called Maroofus, Sir.” 

“I am Grey. Grab my hammer bag and take it below.” 

“Certainly, Sir!” said Maroofus. He picked up the heavy bag, waddled halfway up the gangplank before he just walked off and plunged into the water. Grey grabbed a hook pole and ran to the end of the dock. He fished Maroofus out of the water and dropped him onto the dock. Intending to throttle him, Grey grabbed him by the throat. The close contact sent a nauseating tingle through Grey’s body. Latent Immortal, he thought, exasperated. Letting Maroofus go, Grey shoved the pole against his chest. “You dropped it, you fish it out. I’ll load the rest myself.” 

“Yes, Sir! Yes, Sir! Sorry, Sir! Sorry, Sir!” prattled Maroofus. “Right away, Sir!” 

Grey was left feeling slightly disoriented by the little man’s behavior. This is one of US?! He finished loading, then retired to his cabin for a nap. Much later a commotion above woke him up. The ship was underway already. Grey went up on deck. He saw Marcus and went to ask him what was going on. 

“Oh, hello Grey. ‘Bout time you woke up. The Captain found a stowaway. He’s not one of mine, so when they catch him they’re going to toss him overboard.” There was that hint of amusement again, as Marcus bent down and whispered, “He’s very quick, though, so it may take a while.” 

Watching the sailors race around after a dark blur, Grey decided this alone made the trip worthwhile. Suddenly the blur changed course and hurtled over to Grey. Stopping, it resolved into Maroofus. “Oh, hello Master Grey. Did you enjoy your nap, Sir?” Maroofus ducked as a sailor lunged for him. “Oops. Excuse me Sir!” He leaped up to the yardarm and climbed the sail to the crow’s nest. 

Grey craned his head upwards to see. “He’s the stowaway is he, Marcus?” 

“None other. You know him?” 

“Unfortunately I do. He’s not a stowaway, he’s my lackey.” Grey sighed dramatically. “And he’s an idiot.” 

Maroofus caught hold of a rope tied to the mast, took the free end and jumped out of the nest. The rope went tight and stopped his fall about a foot from the deck. 

Marcus laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. But I’d better put a stop to this before someone important is injured.” With volume only a Centurion could produce, Marcus Flavius bellowed, “HOLD!!” Every man on the ship froze in his tracks, gazing around nervously. “That man is my metal-smith’s lackey! Anyone who harms him answers to me!” Marcus muttered to Grey out of the corner of his mouth, “Get him below, NOW.” 

“Maroofus, come with me,” Grey ordered. They went below. 

After this momentous start, the rest of the trip was uneventful. So was most of Grey’s tenure in Gallalee. Grey’s life, though, now had a new encumbrance. The latent Maroofus, who probably had no idea why he felt compelled to stay around Grey. The Immortal tried to teach him sword-combat, but Maroofus would have none of it. Nevertheless, the man grew on Grey. Bizarrely innocent in the field of combat, he was the darling of the cohort’s whores. Especially since he played with their babies. His dusky complexion and blacker-than-black hair bespoke a peculiar ancestry. His dark eyes and mobile mouth constantly hinted at laughter. He was just Maroofus, and there was no one remotely like him anywhere. 

About a year and a half into their stay, the Zealot Resistance intensified their attacks. Grey, in conversation with Maroofus said, “What makes them dangerous is they are not fighting for their land, but for their God. Rome may control their lands, occupy their cities, but will never completely defeat them. This will end badly for both groups.” Maroofus replied that it was all beyond his humble ability to understand and he really did not care. 

Then one night, their tents were set ablaze in one of the Zealot attacks. Maroofus ran into one tent, following the cries of two infants still inside. Ducking the flames he burst out of the tent heading toward Grey. Then an arrow shot out of the darkness into his chest. He stumbled to Grey and pushed the two crying bundles into his arms. Sinking fast he whispered, “Protect them” 

Grey hid Maroofus’ body and settled the babies with their mothers. Then he carried his dead companion out into the desert. Well away from all other people, he carefully removed the arrow, wanting to ease Maroofus’ return to life. Then he waited. 

Maroofus awoke with a wild cry. Looking frantically around he asked, “The babies? They are...” 

“Safe, my friend.” Grey gave him a hand up, permitting the desperate grip. 

“I was shot?” Maroofus asked, his memory supplying the scene. 

“Yes.” 

Realization shivered across Maroofus’ face, for once devoid of humor. “I died.” 

“Yes.” 

Groping, Maroofus asked, “Then I am a ghost?” 

“No, you are alive. You are Immortal,” Grey said firmly. 

“HOW?!” 

“Ah, that is a long story.” And Grey sat down with Maroofus and explained everything he could. When he was done, they sat together in silence. 

The sky was just beginning to brighten when Maroofus finally spoke very softly, his gaze intent upon the ground at his feet. “Master Grey, I don’t want to live forever.” 

Grey worried about Maroofus. Over the next several months he tried to impress upon the small man the need to learn sword-combat. Maroofus would still have none of it. Once night they were trying to drink each other under the table. As Grey again started on him about training, Maroofus replied firmly, “I have no wish to harm anyone. I bear no malice, I carry no gru’ge, jus’ as my God has taught me... And when I die, hah, I was s’pose to dwell inna House of God forever.” 

Grey, reviewing his words, straightened up in shock. “Dwell in the House...” God-singular, “bear no malice.” 

Drunk as he was, realization hit him like a camel kick in the ass. “Now it makes sense! Why you had to leave Italia, why you wanted to come with me. Why you never spoke of your past. You’re an Israelite!” 

Maroofus smiled drunkenly. “I’ve been with you for two years, you’re eigh’-hun’red years old and you jus’ now figured it out. Hah! An’ people say I’m slow. Would YOU advertise you’re Israeli with all these Romans around?” 

“I’m not Israeli,” Grey replied. Maroofus never heard it, he passed out and slid under the table. 

When the time came to leave the employ of Flavius Marcus, Grey asked to be sent to a port on the far eastern edge of the empire. Arrangements made, all that was left was to convince Maroofus to come with him. But the little man had other ideas. 

“YOU’RE INSANE!!!” Grey shouted. How does he do this to me? No one else drove him to shouting, just Maroofus. 

“No, it is the best solution. You take my head and my Quickening, and I go to my God. If it doesn’t work that way, I am with you.” Grey sputtered at him, shaking his head and waving his hands in little negatory gestures. Maroofus caught Grey’s hands, stilling them. Looking him earnestly in the eye he continued. “If I stay anywhere that Rome reaches, they will find me and kill me. OVER and OVER. This is the best way you can pay me for my services. It is the only payment I will accept.” 

Grey drew a breath and glared at Maroofus. He balked at the idea of killing the frustrating man. “Come with me. We’ll be outside the empire, they’ll never find you!” 

Maroofus shook his head. He said gravely, “I can’t leave. If I leave, I betray my people and my God. He gave this land to US! I can’t live on this way. And I won’t change.” 

Zealot, Grey thought. Curse you, for putting your blood on my hands. “All right, my friend. Let’s get it over with.” 

Maroofus sighed. “Thank you. And farewell, my friend.” He knelt and lay his head across the mounting block, baring his neck for Grey’s strike. Grey raised his sword, closed his eyes and swung down. 

The mounting block clove in two. Grey waited, feeling tears behind his eyelids. Nothing happened. Cautiously opening his eyes he looked at Maroofus, sitting on the floor with an expression of utter astonishment on his face. “You moved!?!” 

“I KNOW!” Maroofus bellowed. 

“Why?” 

Maroofus buried his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It seems my will to live is stronger than my desire to die. Oh, Master Grey, what am I to do?” 

Grey shook his head, relieved. “I don’t know, Maroofus. But I am leaving in the morning. You have until then to figure it out. If you haven’t, then you ARE coming with me, like it or not.” Grey stalked out of the stable before Maroofus could try to talk him into killing him. 

When Maroofus appeared in the morning, Grey was stunned by the change. The little man radiated serenity and smiled. “Master Grey, I went to the desert and prayed last night,” he said. 

“Were you answered?” 

“Oh, yes Sir. I now know why I was chosen and what I am to do. I will go to Nazareth. I am to prepare the place for He Who Is To Come, then prepare the Way.” 

Grey raised his eyebrows. Suddenly he was very glad he knew little about Maroofus’ religion. “Prepare how?” 

“By building an inn.” 

“Uh-huh.” Well, this was better than almost actively trying to kill himself. “If you’re going to be building an inn, you’ll need tools. Take mine, with my blessings.” 

Maroofus was surprised and pleased. “Thank you, Master Grey. I will. Be happy, and fare well.” Maroofus hugged Grey and whispered a blessing in his ear. 

Grey traveled to the port of Barbarikon. There he booked passage on a ship heading East to China. When the boat sailed close to the land of the Viet, Grey took his remaining equipment and slipped overboard in the night. Traveling inland he eventually managed to trade his skills to a lordling. Soon he had enough to start his journey up the coast to meet Tran. 

* * *

**The Coast of Vietnam**

Grey rode now. He had two pack ponies and a big, rangy bay gelding he named Nektik. The horse was almost as good company as another human was. Nektik would walk jerkily when tired, try to brush him off when bored, and roll in dirt or shallow puddles at the slightest provocation. In short, Nektik kept Grey on his toes. It would still be many years before Tran traveled home again, so Grey was in no hurry. Now it was summer. The weather was appallingly hot and humid. Grey rode mostly naked, glad of the herb-concoction Tran once taught him to make. It stank, but kept the flies and mosquitoes away. A beach glimpsed over a rise called out to him. A dip in the ocean would feel so GOOD! Nektik had a very different opinion of salt water. He could not drink it, so he would not go in it. He would, however, paw at the waves. 

Grey divested himself of his remaining clothing and plunged into the water. He cavorted happily for a while, enjoying himself. It was difficult to do for long without someone else to play with. He ducked under the water and blew bubbles, mildly annoyed. For a couple hours now the loneliness had nagged at him. Normally it would only last a few minutes, when he reminded himself that he would soon have his centuries-long companion to talk to again. He realized suddenly that the waves were carrying him rather a ways down the beach. Not wanting to get sucked too far away, he struck out for shore. And then he felt a disturbance in his Quickening. It was distorted and faint. He stopped, treading water and looking about. No, no one walking along the beach. Anyway, this was not quite like the flutter of a latent Immortal. He swam back to shore, and collected some clothing and his sword from the packs. Dressed now, he walked down the beach to look for the source. 

Muffled as it was, he suspected the signal was what really drew him to the beach. His eyes drifted toward the broken rocks in the water. Big rocks one could hide a body behind. The feeling reminded him appallingly of when Tran was dead, and he was sure of what he would find. He stripped down to boots and light pants. Carrying his sword, he splashed out into the water. He found a body wedged under the waterline. Moved to fury by the situation, he kicked and pulled until he got the body free and could bring it into shore. 

A man who looked like the locals except for the whorled tattoos all over his hairless torso. He could not have been under for too long. His pants, though tattered and torn, were not rotted or growing things. Grey rolled him over and began forcing water out of the lungs and stomach. After about a minute the man began to breathe. Then he shuddered and spasmed. Grey carefully held him down until his panic-stricken struggles eased. Finally they looked at each other in silence. 

“I am Grey, who are you?” Grey asked six times, one for each dialect of the region he knew. 

The languages struck no bells with the young man. Still, dawning comprehension and wonder seeped into his face. “Dige.” 

“Dee-gay,” Grey pronounced it slowly. Like most Immortals who traveled he knew many languages. However while with Tran, Grey once met someone who knew none of the languages he knew. And yet somehow, on some level they understood one another. Within a week they were talking one of the local languages together, though not very well. Tran said Immortals learned quickly from each other, but if surrounded only by mortals would learn as slowly as they did. So Grey’s first duty by this young man was to teach him to communicate so he could learn about the Game. 

He chose the local dialect he was best in to teach Dige. With every sentence and word he spoke he would concentrate on his meaning. Dige would listen and try to respond. Sometimes Grey could feel a mesh between them, and for a single moment they would absolutely understand one another. Then it would be gone. 

Dige, once cleaned up and groomed, was astonishingly attractive. The whorled tattoos were artistically balanced and accented the lay of his muscles. He was a little soft, but sword training would take care of that. Lips full and pliant and constantly moving as he breathed and murmured to the pony Grey gave him to ride. His lively bright eyes found everything around fascinating. 

As his ability in the language Grey taught him improved, he told his story. He came from an island. His people lived off the bounty of the sea. He and his brothers decided to build a bigger boat, so that they could sail further and see the islands beyond. A few days after they began their journey, they sailed into a typhoon. The wind, rain and waves battered the boat until it began to break up. Dige, clinging desperately to a chunk of wood, never knew what happened to his brothers. He tied himself to the wood and prayed desperately. 

As Grey listened to Dige’s tale, he realized the young man drowned in that storm. From the sound of it, he died again at least three times afterward. The third time was the last he remembered. Perhaps the rope gave way and Dige’s body slid under the waves, to be pushed to shore by tides until it was caught in the rocks Grey found him among. Sometimes at night, Dige half-woke screaming in his native language. Grey would come to him and stroke the long, black hair into place until Dige’s eyes closed and he fell back to sleep. 

At last, Grey could explain about Immortality and the Game. 

“I can’t die?” Dige asked, as all new Immortals asked. 

“No. You can die if your head is cut off.” 

Dige folded his arms protectively over his head, eyes twinkling. Then he threw them out expansively, tossing his head back. He shouted, “I am not the sea! I am not the sky!” Stretching his arms up, his laced his fingers together. Grey chuckled, admiring the young man’s grace. Dige turned toward him, a perturbed frown on his face. “I can’t live for always. Always like this.” He patted his chest. “When I die, I am to be a dolphin.” 

“A...dolphin?” 

“Yes, if I am good. Except...” he trailed off, but a smile lurked on his expressive lips. His eyes begged Grey to question him. 

“Except what?” Grey obliged. 

“After a dolphin dies, it lives as a human.” 

Grey considered this for a while. He cocked his head. “Is that if the dolphin is bad?” 

“It does not matter. You get a life as a dolphin for being a good human. If you are a bad human, you are human again.” 

“Does it ever end? Do you go from human to dolphin to human forever?” 

“No. The best souls become part of the mountains, sea and sky.” 

“Ah!” 

“If I can’t die, I will never fulfill my destiny.” 

Please don’t tell me I’m dealing with another Maroofus, I can’t go through that again. “You have a new destiny. To play in the Game. To be the last one, if you can. I will tell you, as I was told. Just let me know if you don’t understand.” Grey leaned back in the saddle, cleared his throat and intoned dramatically, “When there are only a few of us left, we will be drawn to a faraway land to fight for the Prize. We will fight until only one survives.” 

Dige reined in his pony. “What is the Prize?” 

“I have no idea. Neither did my teacher. We won’t find out until...” 

“Until the end.” Dige leaned forward, and his pony obediently walked again. Side by side with Grey he asked quietly, “Will we always live in fear, then?” 

“We are safe on Holy Ground. No Immortal will fight there. Now, you know how you feel, when I walk away from you and then come back?” 

“Yes. A little sick, my head hurts, my heart runs and I feel hot. It mostly goes away.” 

“I feel it, too. That is how we know an Immortal from a mortal. How we know to be ready to fight. When we take a head, the feeling runs into us, magnified. It brings with it the strength and knowledge of our opponent. We feel the knowledge, but cannot quite reach it.” 

Dige reined in his pony again and stared at Grey. After a long hesitation he asked, “Why are you helping me?” 

Grey chuckled. He once asked Tran a very similar question. “I may not live to see the end of the Game. But you might. And if I teach you, something of me will live within you.” He grinned abruptly. “You are my inheritor, because we cannot sire children.” 

Dige learned sword exercises as though he was born to them. Sparring with him was both fun and educational for Grey as well. Grey enjoyed more watching him work out. The boy trimmed up nicely. He was sleek and graceful. It was a pity he was Grey’s student. There were other things Grey would like to teach him. He kept those fantasies very much to himself, though. The boy’s personality was a delight, too. Bright, sharp and quick. He was full of questions. Grey wanted to save his life in Rome for telling to Tran, so instead he told Dige tales about when he and Tran were still traveling together. Dige was skeptical about some of the wilder stories and Grey had to admit for good reason. But the stories were all true. 

Dige would not try to beat him. That frustrated Grey. He bested his teacher only once. A student should WANT to surpass the teacher. He had to admit, though, that the idea revolted him when Tran demanded it of him. He wondered if he would be there at the end and find himself facing Tran. “Listen, Dige,” he sat down to explain one day. “I need you to be better than me. If I have to send you away to find other teachers, I will.” 

“I don’t want to be better than you, Grey.” 

Looking into those large, worshipful dark eyes he felt like a hero, but he shook his head. “If you ever have to face me, you should be able if not willing to win.” Dige tossed his head back and shook it hard but Grey persisted. “That’s a worse-case scenario. If I am taken, you must be able to fight my killer. Then my Quickening will go into you when you win. That’s... that’s what most of us want when we teach you. That you will be able to avenge us and carry on for us.” Tran had never said as much, but Grey was suddenly sure this was his reason, too. Whether they lived to the end or died, through their students they could have a wider influence when the end finally came. 

The years traveled quickly. They arrived in the valley Tran always came to just about a year before Grey expected him. To Grey’s eyes, the people living there looked and sounded much like they had a hundred and fifty years before. Only Tran would care enough to note the changes in the language and phenotypes. 

They built a hut on the outskirts of the village and trained together there. It took a few months, but the people eventually came to accept these strangers as more than a temporary disturbance. Soon they were trading the use of their horses and Grey’s smithing skills. Soon the young women of the village were giving Dige the eye, and he was eyeing back. Grey sighed to himself and shelved his fantasies for the time being. The boy MIGHT like both, but Grey had no intention of finding out until their relationship was no longer that of teacher and student. 

Grey was hard at work in the smithy when he felt someone approaching. There was no familiarity to the signal, so he drew his sword and looked around. Confusion reigned when he saw Tran standing there. He set his sword down and scooped up his teacher in his arms. They held each other tight, Grey marveling in the familiar smell of him, his weight and size. There was a flicker in his Quickening and suddenly the bond between them reasserted itself. He could again sense Tran as different from other Immortals. 

“We’re attracting attention,” Tran murmured in his ear. 

Grey laughed and set him down. Then he knelt, bringing their heads to a level. He set his hands on Tran’s shoulders, shifting his fingers finding immediately the familiar lines of tension there. He soothed them and felt Tran relax completely. He spoke softly, “I’ve got so much to tell you. I never thought so many things could happen in only a century and a half!” Memories of Menander, Maroofus and life in the Roman Empire were foremost of his thoughts. 

Tran grinned back at him, joy suppressing the years visible only in his dark gaze. “I’m sure you’ve done a lot more than I have.” 

* * *

**Present**

“You see, Tran is not a social animal, and in those times a child on his own was legitimate prey for anyone. So without me to be a buffer for him, he just stayed away from people.” Grey paused, a wry scowl twisting his lips. “Every time I meet someone who whines about missing the good old days, I’m tempted to cut off their heads. It’s only in the last fifty years that a child stands a chance of... well, of growing up stable and healthy with no family to watch out for him. 

“Dige had to be defeated by Tran three times before he realized this was no helpless child he could condescend to. He was never so hard-headed again. He was bright, shining. Sometimes I felt as if there was nothing he couldn’t do. He set up the ranch with satellite television and taught us how to use computers. He had a knack with animals, even Nektik liked him. Fell asleep on a horse’s back or in a pile of dogs. The cats at our home always liked to sleep with him. I was not surprised that Mariah and he took to each other so quickly. She was like an injured, wild creature when we found her. Dige... I didn’t know. I should have given him something, anything to replace his people. Tran and I fell so naturally back together, maybe we left Dige out. I worried about him, about myself when challenges came our way. So I came up with an idea to solve our problem of wanting to stay together, but needing broader experiences.” 

“What was that?” 

“What brought us here to challenge MacLeod. We go out, like Tran returns home every hundred and fifty years. We challenge the best Immortals and learn what we can from our challenge. I knew...” he stopped, sighing. “Death was always a possibility. Dige and I had a special bond. I think that if I hadn’t been nearby, I wouldn’t have felt his death so strongly.” Grey’s voice faded as he spoke, his eyes closed. He murmured softly, “Strange to talk of Maroofus. I failed him, too. I read about John the Baptist. It sounded so like him. His Quickening lost...” Grey trailed off, and both men fell asleep. 

* * *

Tran came out of the darkness, his Wakizashi flying. “For Chichinquane! For everyone you betrayed and destroyed!” he shouted. He hurtled toward Methos, a blur of deadly slashing metal. 

Methos wasted no time. His own two shining blades were in his hands. He spun around Tran and thrust one sword straight through the small Immortal’s back. Tran fell to his knees. Methos spoke, his voice stone. “There can be only one!” He slashed down with his other sword and Tran’s head rolled away into the darkness. Steeling himself for the Quickening, Methos lifted his head and found himself staring into another face, a man whose gray eyes were stricken with horror. 

* * *

A hand stroked his hair, reassuring him as his body shook. He came awake in the darkened room all too aware of whom he was with. Grey spoke, a faint hint of amusement in his voice. “I thought I would be the one having nightmares.” Methos froze. The hand on his hair, detecting the change, shifted and moved down to his shoulder. Worry replaced amusement in Grey’s voice. “What is it?” 

“I have to go.” He made it as abrupt as he could. Still, a tremor was perceptible in his tone. He found he could not bring himself to get up against the hand on his shoulder. 

Grey squeezed Adam’s shoulder gently. Shifting carefully so that he would not have to remove his hand, he sat up and turned on the lamp. In the dim light Adam’s eyes were shadowed, his cheekbones stood out in sharp relief. Grey settled back down, closer now than before. “Is this because MacLeod killed Dige? I’m all right now. I won’t attack your friend.” 

Adam closed his eyes tightly. He took in a slow, deep breath. Finally he said, “No. I know you won’t.” He lapsed into silence that lasted until his stomach growled. 

Grey glanced at his watch. “Oh gods, it’s past eight o’clock. I’ll order room service. What do you want?” This last he asked very gently. An open question, designed to let Adam know he could tell Grey anything. The other man kept it to the menu and named a few choice dishes. Grey went through some mild contortions in order to reach the phone and place his order without ever removing his hand from Adam’s shoulder. Now he sat next to Adam. His left hand free, he used it to gently stroke the whorls of Adam’s ear. There were other places he wanted to touch, for the memory of Adam’s sudden aggressiveness before burned through him. He would not give into impulse, however, until they solved whatever was bothering Adam. He suddenly wondered if this were some elaborate ploy to distract him from Dige’s death. No, he was sure Adam knew it was not necessary. But how to ask someone you barely knew what fears could drive him from a warm bed into the cold night? 

“What happened in your nightmare?” 

“I took someone’s head,” Adam answered shortly. 

“I had to kill someone who was once a very good friend,” Adam had said earlier, and pulled away from Grey. Now Grey bent down, his left fingertips spread along Adam’s forehead. He brushed Adam’s ear with his lips, letting his warm breath roll over the sensitive skin. Adam moved fractionally to give better access, exposing his neck in the process. Grey smiled wickedly, glad he needed to shave. He shifted his head down and brushed the side of his chin along Adam’s neck. Then again, and again. 

By the third time, Adam was shaking. Each brush sent bolts to nerve endings all over his body. Suddenly his sweater was too rough on his chest. He grasped frantically at the reasons why he had to leave, only to find them dwindling in importance. Grey changed tactics, moving slowly over the now-tender skin with his tongue. The need to leave was blotted out as Adam’s pants, comfortable and loose enough before, became constricting. He pushed himself up and pulled Grey tight against him. With a groan Adam opened Grey’s mouth with his own. They caressed each other, hands roaming with firm pressure along backs and sides, too close together. Adam pulled slightly back and ran his palms over Grey’s chest. He moved them down and began slowly rubbing along Grey’s thighs. Gazing him in the eye Adam shifted his touch to the inner thighs, sliding his hands up to Grey’s hips, then back to knees, then even more slowly back to hips. Grey shivered, biting his lower lip. He shifted his hips forward pleadingly, eyes glazing over as Adam’s hands approached his groin. 

The knock on the door made both men jump, hearts pounding. “Room service!” called a young voice. They stared blankly at the door. When the knock repeated, Grey shook himself and groaned. “Timing!” He slid off the bed to answer. 

Able to think again, Methos drew in deep breaths. If the situation did not have such potential for disaster, he might have buried himself in his identity as Adam Pierson, mild-mannered young Immortal. Yet it was impossible to be passive when Grey touched him. Why was it so difficult? Grey would return to the Ukraine, soon. The chances were Methos would see him rarely, if at all. He shuddered and closed his eyes. Do not deceive yourself, he thought. 

He remembered all too clearly those many weeks ago. MacLeod arrived as Methos finished loading things in the car. Methos wanted desperately to flee to the ends of the Earth and delay this confrontation, even as he wanted to escape Kronos. Duncan MacLeod, whose expression was becoming one Methos called ‘Awful Realization’. “What are you running from?” MacLeod asked him tightly. “The question, or the answer?” Duncan’s revulsion when Methos admitted to wanton slaughter and rape had almost broken the old one. He knew that feeling and that expression; the death of dreams, hero-worship betrayed. I never pretended to be more than I am. But he had pretended he never was what he had been. He could not bear to see that expression again. Not on Grey’s face. 

They were alone again. Grey looked through their order. It was a good selection. He glanced over at Adam and frowned. Adam looked resigned. Whatever haunted his dreams, it drove him to leave. Grey dipped a finger in the sauce and tasted it, groping for conversation to delay the inevitable. Memory supplied a topic that surprised Grey. “Adam,” he spoke, slowly licking the sauce off his finger. The golden eyes turned to him, the abstract gaze focused on his hand, as he intended it to. Adam licked his lips, wavering just a little. Grey shook his head admiringly, “That was some move.” 

Faint confusion rippled across Adam’s face. “What was?” 

“The way you disarmed me.” Now Grey remembered clearly the numbing blow to his shoulder, the pommel of Adam’s sword smashing his wrist and his own sword knocked from his fingers. 

“Yes, well I didn’t want you to kill me.” 

“You could have done that the first day.” When he looked at Adam it seemed as though the other man was not breathing, he was so still. “Adam, why..?” 

“I did not want your head.” 

“I did not want yours, either. But I fought to win. You did not care about winning.” This said, Grey dipped his fingers in the sauce again, then moved over to Adam. He held out his hand with a slight smile. Adam eyed him suspiciously, but when Grey’s finger brushed his lips, he opened them to taste the sauce. Grey slid his other hand around the back of Adam’s neck. Holding gently, he brushed Adam’s ear with his lips. 

Adam trembled under the combined caresses. “You are not making this easy,” he breathed. 

Grey’s lips curved into a smile against his ear. “Indeed,” he murmured. “I’m trying to make it as hard as possible.” 

Closing his eyes, Adam made a weak effort to lean away from Grey’s touch. Part of the problem, it occurred to him, was that Grey was inclined to move slowly if he was not pushed. Slow seduction involved too many emotions. Quick was casual and easy. “Damn you. You don’t know me.” 

“Well if you stay here long enough, I will know you,” Grey answered, chuckling low in his throat. 

“You’re worse than MacLeod!” Adam managed indignantly. 

Grey wrapped his arms around Adam and moved his leg between the other’s. He shifted his weight to apply pressure with his thigh and felt Adam’s fingers dig into his shoulders. Forgetting the food, he maneuvered them toward the bed. Before he could complete the move, Adam braced himself and slipped away to lean heavily against the wall. He wrapped his arms around his chest. Grey considered him. This was not exactly a defensive posture. More... brittle, he was holding himself together. Dismayed, Grey leaned against the wall a few feet away. He stared gently at Adam until the grieved eyes met his. Those eyes looked ancient. “This is like courting a mortal,” Grey said. 

The grief disappeared into confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“Every time I look at you, you seem older and wiser.” 

Adam stared at him, opened his mouth for a moment then cocked his head. “Did you say this to any mortal lovers?” 

“No, they tend to take it the wrong way.” 

Adam pulled away from the wall. He seemed at a loss, quivering with indecision. Grey sighed to himself. Adam would leave if Grey did not stop him. He had to find a way around this impasse. There was one thing that might work on the skittish man. It was a rather drastic and dramatic measure, but Grey decided to try it. 

He stepped in close to Adam, who looked up with sudden alarm at the movement. Grey bowed his head, letting his shoulders droop. He sank bonelessly to the floor at Adam’s feet, legs curled under him and forehead pressed into the carpet. This was the most submissive position he knew. 

Adam uttered a strangled cry. Dropping down he caught Grey’s shoulders and pulled him up onto his knees so they were face to face. Grey stared into eyes gone wide and black. I’ve touched a private horror, haven’t I? he realized. 

“Not you! I don’t want...” Adam’s whisper trailed off, the blackness fading a little. He was clearly in shock. “I - I can’t do this. You call me... don’t know-” 

“Then tell me,” Grey interjected gently. Having driven Adam into incoherency, he did not attempt seduction. This was it, he realized. This would decide everything for the two of them. He would not stop Adam again. Whatever it was causing him so much pain, Grey would not add to it. 

Adam closed his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. Once again he became still as a statue, except his hands on Grey’s shoulders shook noticeably. When he spoke his voice was devoid of hope. “I am Methos.” 

For an instant Grey wavered, disbelief foremost in his thoughts. This slender, unassuming man? The killer of Chichinquane? Tran’s nightmare? The legendary five thousand year old Immortal? Then it hit him, all the little clues which meant nothing without that one statement. Yes, he was. “Gods!” Grey breathed. 

Adam - METHOS - flinched but did not open his eyes. 

Grey moved slowly, as was his wont. He laid his hands over Methos’ and pressed them into his shoulders, trying to convey his feelings. He slid his hands slowly up the ancient’s arms and gently took Methos’ face between his palms. At last the golden eyes opened, Methos swallowed and said painfully. “I dreamed Tran - I killed him to protect myself. You were there and you looked as though it was you I killed.” Grey nodded, caressing the dark hair. “I hate that look. I do not ever want to see it on your face. But if Tran attacks me...” 

“Shh,” Grey whispered. He leaned in close to kiss Methos and murmured against the other man’s lips, “I understand. You don’t know this, but Tran is a pookah.” He drew back, grinning into half-dazed eyes. 

Methos’ thoughts scattered. A pookah? A creature of dark Irish legends? 

“Life was not easy three thousand and so years ago. After you killed Chichinquane, Tran wandered. He settled in Ireland and went through a very bad period. That was the first time he bred horses. He also bred dogs.” 

Clarity burned through Methos. “He trained them to attack travelers.” 

“Mmmhmm. To bring them into a river or lake, where he would suddenly come up from the water and kill them. But eventually he could not live like that anymore. He took to wandering again. He stumbled upon me. After I joined him I never went back home. I don’t want to see the remnants of my people or notice their absence. Tran is my life. Everything I am is because of him. So I won’t tell him about you.” Grey drew back and stared seriously into Methos’ eyes. “I won’t be the one who forces you into that position.” He shook his head, eyes alight with wonder, then stroked Methos’ jawline with his fingers. “With so much at risk, you told me the truth.” 

For the first time, Methos reached out just to touch Grey. Closing his eyes he trailed his fingers over Grey’s face, marveling at the contours. The underlying fear broken, he felt at peace. He shook his head, smiling. Meeting Grey’s gaze he said, “I really did not know what to expect from you.” 

Grey shuffled in closer, trapping Methos’ knees between his own. He said seriously, “Tran told me that Chichinquane distinguished between you and the others you rode with. She believed you’d - what do they say these days? - fallen in with a bad crowd.” 

Methos laughed shortly. “Oh, it wasn’t that simple.” 

“It never is.” Grey bumped his nose lightly against Methos’. “Tell me about it?” 

“It’s too much to tell.” Methos considered, the memories already triggered by the question. He ignored them, not wanting to ruin this brief peace. 

“Three sentences or less?” Grey offered gently. 

Methos grinned. “Maybe.” He straightened up, the grin replaced by a frown. “I was captured on the field of battle. The enemy lord discovered my Immortality and decided to keep me. He - had in mind giving me as a present to his son when he came of age.” Methos stopped speaking, swallowing hard. He could not go on without reliving those memories. With a mighty effort he said only, “There were four of us, when we got away.” 

“Bonded together by a common enemy.” 

“...Yes.” Methos closed his eyes and willed the memories to settle back beneath thousands of years of other experiences. That over, he inhaled slowly and finally noticed the scent of their food. His stomach growled even as he opened his eyes and looked over Grey’s shoulder at the table. “Hungry?” he asked hopefully. 

Grey laughed. “Oh, yes. But perhaps we should eat first.” His low, affectionate tone distracted Methos, who eyed him challengingly. Grey wrapped his arms around Methos’ torso and spoke softly into his ear, “You’ll need your strength tonight.” 

“Really?” Methos asked innocently. Grey simply smiled and offered him a hand up. They levered each other to their feet. 

“We have steak here, medium rare, and fruit salad. Beer and fried rice...” Grey catalogued the food as he and Methos moved to the table. The potatoes au gratin they already knew tasted delicious. They ate quietly, neither man much into talking while eating. 

Grey finished his plate while Methos still had some left. He watched the other man eat for a moment, bemused by the absolute grace and civilized manner in which he ate. Again that sense of disbelief wavered through him. How could Adam Pierson be Death, of the Four Horsemen? But 2000 to 3500 years ago, well that was a long time ago. Even the most evil of Immortals surely could change into something unexpected. No, he could feel the truth of what Methos had claimed. Grey was rocked with amazed joy. He glided from his seat and moved over to stand behind Methos, who pretended not to notice. Grey smiled slightly. He gently set his hands on Methos’ shoulders to feel them move as the other man cut a piece of meat to bite-size and put it in his mouth. 

Sliding his fingers first up onto Methos’ neck, Grey then plunged them down under the fabric of the sweater. Sliding along the smooth, flat plains of the pecs his fingers brushed over Methos’ nipples and paused. He moved his fingers slowly, lightly in small circles around and over the nipples. There was a soft clatter as Methos dropped his fork on the plate. However, he picked it back up and brought the next piece of meat to his mouth. Grey smirked to himself and made one hand slide lower, feeling Methos’ stomach muscles tense. He watched carefully as Methos closed his mouth over the piece of meat, and just at that moment dropped his hand to press and squeeze Methos’ cock through his pants. Simultaneously he gave a quick, hard twist to the nipple under his fingers. 

Methos started, arching into Grey’s hands. He gasped hard and tried to get up, but the chair failed him, almost dumping him on the floor. Grey stroked Methos’ cock with the flat of his hand, the other hand barely brushing his now-taut nipple. Methos tried to push himself into both caresses, his body aching with need. “I thought you said I’d need my strength,” he gasped out. 

“You seem strong to me,” Grey replied. “You’re almost finished, anyway.” He pushed his forehead against Methos’ head, silently urging him to lean away. This opened his neck to Grey’s probing tongue. Grey breathed a sigh and began using his chin instead, tantalizingly rubbing, barely touching. He kept the movement with his hands and finally Methos could stand it no more. 

He jerked out of the chair, whipping around to grab Grey. With a well-placed foot he tumbled them both onto the bed. Grey was pinned. “You like to live dangerously, yes?” Methos inquired into the shining eyes. 

“Oh, yes!” was the enthusiastic response. 

“Not too dangerously.” Methos leaned down, trailing feathery kisses along the edges of Grey’s mouth. “Do as I tell you,” he murmured quietly. 

Grey’s eyes widened. “Yes, Sir!” he replied, doing his best imitation of Maroofus. The significance was lost on Methos, but he was still amused. 

He took Grey’s hands and put them up above his head, then grabbed a pillow and shoved it under Grey’s head, yet over his arms. Settling Grey’s head comfortably he smiled down at him. “Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.” Grey swallowed heavily, but held still. Methos’ smile broadened. He shifted and turned his head. With his left hand he idly touched Grey’s far nipple through his shirt. He began tracing the circumference of the nipple until it tightened enough to easily see through the shirt. Pleased, he brought his lips to the other nipple and tongued it. When that nipple was hard, he bit it lightly. Tremors wracked Grey’s body, he valiantly held still. Methos spent some time there, touching and suckling the nipples through Grey’s shirt. He alternated one to another. Finally he lifted his head to look at Grey’s face. The man’s eyes were tightly closed, his lips slightly parted and trembling. There was a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead. Methos renewed his attack on the nipples with both hands and saw Grey’s expression reflect exquisite pleasure that almost became pain. 

Methos lowered his head and touched his lips to Grey’s, pushing them apart. He waited for a second before swiping his tongue in. Grey made a small sound, and his lips and tongue moved desperately, increasing the breadth of their kiss. He started to reach up for Methos, but the older Immortal whispered softly, “No.” A tremendous shudder wracked Grey, but he put his arms back. 

Kissing him and stroking one nipple with his fingers, Methos used his other hand to unbutton Grey’s shirt. He did not move the fabric apart, just continued stroking Grey’s chest and stomach. He moved his leg up to slide against Grey’s erection. Keeping up the sliding movement, he broke the kiss long enough to pull his sweater off and drop it beside the bed. He went back to the kiss, rubbing his body along Grey’s. Grey tried to suck him in, devour him but Methos had control. He found he did not need to. Share, he thought. He sat up abruptly, stretching his arms all the way up, arching his back. “Yes,” he whispered to Grey. 

Grey was off the pillow like a shot. He stopped himself and studied the long-torsoed body displayed for his view. For a moment he was disoriented. To a mortal this view would simply be erotic. To Grey it hearkened back to older days when beautiful young men were offered on the auction block for whatever purpose the buyer might wish. He met the sultry darkness of the golden-brown eyes and understood their message. Methos had been enslaved, probably several times in his long life. Grey stroked up Methos’ sides to his elbows and gently urged the arms down to his shoulders. Leaving them there for Methos to decide what to use them for, Grey kissed him again, stroking Methos’ nipples and occasionally pinching them. The bare skin seemed like precious silk, he had to touch it everywhere. His roaming hands were briefly irritated to encounter denim, Methos’ pants. But keeping up his kisses that travelled down to Methos’ shoulders, Grey undid the buttonfly jeans. 

Now he leaned to the side, hands silently urging Methos to lie down. The other obeyed willingly. Grey began carefully sliding the jeans off the long legs, kissing Methos’ skin as it was newly bared. The pants gone, Grey ran his fingers lightly up the sole of Methos’ foot. Involuntarily, Methos spasmed. Grey grinned. He bent Methos’ left leg up and bit and sucked gently on the flesh of his inner thigh, all the while stroking the sole of his foot. A hoarse moan broke from Methos, the tickling sensation transformed into a sort of erotic torture. Grey turned his head now, to the erection clearly visible against Methos’ underwear. He nibbled up the ridge to the wet spot that marked its head. There he simply rubbed his face back and forth until Methos protested, “Grey, please!” 

Grey finally released Methos’ foot, enjoying the trembling in the form beneath him. He addressed the underwear, sliding it oh so slowly off the hips and down Methos’ legs. He paused briefly to lick once across the head of Methos’ cock, then in sudden impatience jerked the underwear all the way off. Again he nibbled up Methos’ shaft to lick at the head, pulling back when Methos’ hips pumped. Methos snarled and reached down, pushing Grey’s head toward his cock. Chuckling low in his throat, Grey allowed himself to be directed. He took the cock head into his mouth but resisted going farther, sliding his tongue over and into the little slit at the top. Methos writhed beneath him. Abruptly Grey dove down. “GREY!” gasped Methos as his cock was engulfed. 

Sucking, Grey reached down to unbutton and unzip his own pants. Keeping a steady rhythm, he still managed to pull off his pants and underwear, leaving his open shirt on. He reached up to stroke Methos’ nipples only to find the other man was doing it himself. He slapped lightly at the offending hands and took over. 

Methos groaned helplessly. Suddenly he forced himself to sit up, pulling Grey up to face him. He cupped Grey’s chin in his hand and gazed thoughtfully into the darkened eyes. Keeping the eye contact, he dropped his right hand to Grey’s lap and stroked his erection. Grey reciprocated. They sat like that, each with one hand stimulating the other man’s penis while their other hands roamed over torsos and along thighs. It seemed to go on forever, but Grey was beginning to tremble, his penis taking on the hardness that meant he was about to come. Methos left off touching it, eliciting a whimpered protest from Grey. Methos reached his hands around to Grey’s buttocks, squeezing them and pulling the cheeks apart. He trailed a finger lightly over Grey’s anus. Grey’s lips parted and he shuddered. “Yes, oh please...” he whispered. 

They kissed, long and hard. Methos whispered back, “I hope you have some lubricant... 

“Toiletry bag,” Grey managed to say. He backed off the bed, walking unsteadily because of his pronounced erection. He returned rather quickly with the lube. He knelt at the side of the bed, sweat trickling down his forehead and sides. Warming some lube in his hands, he began to apply it to Methos’ penis with gentle yet firm strokes. Methos stopped him when it became difficult not to come. He pulled Grey forward so that his torso lay on the bed, his knees on the floor. Taking some of the lube, Methos slid off the bed and began applying the lube to Grey’s anal area. He carefully slid one slick finger inside and heard Grey moan. Encouraged, he slid another in and moved them in and out. Grey stuttered weakly, “m-m-more, more...” 

“Shush,” Methos replied softly. He spooned his body around Grey’s, positioning his cock. He pushed just the head inside and felt Grey shudder and whimper. The ring of flesh spasmed a bit around him, and quickly he shoved the rest of the way in. Though slickened it was not enough to stop the initial pain of entry, but Methos’ hand stroking Grey’s cock and the rough covers against his nipples distracted Grey until the pain faded and the pleasure overrode it. Grey gripped the covers in his hands. Each time Methos thrust forward he felt a burst of intense pleasure. He began frantically rocking in time with Methos’ thrusts. Methos held Grey’s cock and controlled him until he felt Grey was about to come, then he moved his hands in a quick, almost brutal stroking that took Grey over the edge. 

“Methos!” Grey gasped. He cried out again, no words this time. Methos, driven into orgasm by the feel of Grey’s, whispered his name in his ear. As their orgasms died down, Methos wrapped his arms around Grey, thumbs lightly grazing his nipples. Grey whimpered at the touch on such over-sensitized flesh. They melted together beside the bed, Methos slowly withdrawing from Grey’s body. Content, they dozed off.

* * *

“Have you ever been to Paris?” Methos asked Grey later. 

They were in the hot tub that came with the master suite. Grey was stroking Methos’ wet chest with curious fingers. He shook his head, eyes bright. “I’ve thought of going.” 

“I’m returning there later this week. Come with me, there are some fantastic sights and... and we can spend more time together.” 

Grey smiled wickedly. “I’d like that. I don’t have to return home just yet.” He edged forward. “Besides, I haven’t had my fill of you, yet.” 

* * *

**Sunday**

Melinda Krager sat at the bar with Joe. It was still hours before opening time. She stared morosely into her drink. Joe interrupted her brooding. “I hate to ask, but what’s up?” 

“I have to request reassignment,” she said heavily. “They know about me.” She lifted her chin and looked hard at Joe. “And I know about Pierson. Bright though he is.” 

“Eh?” Joe asked, going as blank as he could. 

“Look, it’s obvious. Adam Pierson is the Immortal Grey attacked, that’s how Grey knew him. Tran came into your bar that morning because he sensed Pierson. The remark about the woman he loved could be discounted, but the rest of it... Besides, he has a sword and I saw him disarm Grey. And that was no small feat, let me tell you.” Meeting Joe’s stony expression she pleaded, “Just tell me the truth. I don’t need to know who he is or how he knew enough about us to falsify his birth records back two generations.” 

Joe sighed. Answering her questions would be easier than having her wander about, a loose cannon. “Yes, he’s Immortal. Duncan MacLeod discovered him among us. Ever since they’ve spent about half their time together. I watch both of ‘em when I can.” 

“You’re like Achmed, only they both know you’re their Watcher.” The tension drained out of her. She looked considerably less depressed. Then she smiled. “Pierson is really quick on his feet. He’s got them thinking I’m some crackpot who’ll believe anything, and that’s why I’m following them around.” 

“I don’t get the connection.” 

“I’ve read the journals of Ached Al Khazar, which have been handed down from generation to generation. I recognized Grey and Tran. Now they probably think I’m waiting for the Mothership to come down and take them to Mars.” 

Joe hooted. “Yeah, he is bright! Where is he, anyway?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “With Grey. I stopped watching the room a couple hours ago. They may not be coming out for a while.” She reached into her bag and brought out an envelope. “Here’s my request for reassignment, will you process it? Please?” 

“At your service, Krager.” 

* * *

Krager was gone when Duncan came in a half-hour before opening. “Hey, Joe!” he called. 

“Hey, Mac,” Joe replied. 

Duncan sat at the bar and made a big production of pulling out a large manila envelope. Joe raised his eyebrows as Duncan graciously handed it to him. “Okay.” Joe opened the envelope and studied its contents. His eyebrows went up and he looked at Duncan. “Some explanation is in order, here,” he prompted. 

“Maurice’s nightclub is part of a group of nightclubs that want to hire a blues-band from America. They’re defraying the costs by pooling their resources. If you say yes, your band starts at the clubs in London and then transfers to the circuit in Paris.” 

“‘Defraying’ the costs?” 

“I’m helping a little.” 

Joe snorted. He looked over the papers and invitations again. “The boys’d love this...” he muttered. 

“So it’s yes?” 

Stuffing the papers back in the envelope Joe said, “Of course it’s yes! Now why are you going back to Paris so soon?” 

Duncan shuffled sheepishly. “Nobody’s here for me, Joe. Except for these people who keep attacking me. Even Richie’s in France. And Methos - I want to keep an eye on him.” 

Joe looked up at him, eyes twinkling. “Yeah, I know you do. So he doesn’t go off and disappear again.” 

“Yeah!” Duncan flushed under Joe’s laughing gaze. “Especially not with Grey.” 

“Oh you’re running his love-life now?” 

Duncan sputtered for a minute before glowering. “No, I just don’t want him to lose his head.” He made a snatch for the envelope. “Some friend you are!” 

Joe hid the envelope under the counter. “No Indian-giving allowed, Mac. Playing blues in London and Paris nightclubs. I knew watching you was worth my while.” 

The two men shook hands firmly. “It’ll be great,” they agreed. 

And Seacouver International would never again have so many Immortals on outbound flights during the same week.


End file.
